


Reckless Hearts and Uncanny Bodies

by theblindtorpedo



Series: RHaUB Universe Fics [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exploitation, Family Angst, Family Bonding, Friendship/Love, Monsterfalls AU - Freeform, Multi, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pet Store, Police, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Underground Dueling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4309725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a case, specialist police officer Stan Pines meets Fiddleford McGucket, the proprietor of a mysterious pet store. Stan is certain that McGucket is involved in the rise of unusual deaths throughout the city. But his efforts to prove the man’s guilt will drive him into the darkest recesses of the supernatural underground, a magical jungle where everyone has an agenda and nobody plays by the rules. Staying alive, falling in love, and uncovering the secret history of his long lost brother isn't going to be easy.</p><p>(Updates monthly.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Monsterfalls/Supernatural Crime AU. I tried to include every one of the named Gravity Falls characters, along with a few bit-part OCs. The plot arcs are already planned out so do not worry about this fic being abandoned. Take a seat, it’s going to be a long ride.

**MAY, 2012**

Everything hurt.

He could feel the blood flowing slow and thick like molasses through his burning veins, most eager to breach the fragility of the magical bonds he used to seal the gashes all along his left side. While he would not bleed out now, the devil’s bargain trapped the venom inside. Stan Pines knew he was disintegrating slowly.

One last hope. So close.

He stumbled into the alley, catching an unseen trash-can by the hip. There was an explosion of pain and a crash as he fell to the ground. The split trash bags invaded his nose with the scent of rotten food, dried blood and formaldehyde. He vomited onto the floor.

It would be so easy to die here. He would be less than a statistic, one of the hundreds of unaccounted for deaths in New York City. His body would be nothing but carrion by morning and Stan Pines would die having achieved nothing. He’d be lying to himself if he said he never considered he would end like this, on an incomplete note, a failure to his family to his last breath.

Five streets away two innocent twins were sleeping unaware in their beds. An image flashed before Stan’s eyes. The warm haze of dawn on the creaky wooden stairs, their small feet propelling them down to the kitchen expecting to see their Uncle Stan waiting with open arms and breakfast. Except he would not be there. And when they realize, smiles would shatter, replaced with sorrow and fear. Abandoned again. They might live yet, but their young souls and bodies would stand vulnerable to the supernatural dangers he fought against. They might fall as bloodied and broken as he was now. And it would be his fault he had not been there to protect them.

The window was ten feet away at ground level, a black out curtain obscuring any view of the inside. He pushed himself up on aching hands and knees and crawled toward it, dragging a trail of filth in his wake, before falling against the glass with hard thud.

“Kid,” deep breaths, concentrate, stay awake. “Open up. I know you can hear me.”

The curtain was drawn away at the corner by a tentative hand. There were no lights on in the room, except a flickering of candlelight on the edge of a pale, but acne-speckled chin. Two beady eyes met his, their sclera pinpoints of white in the void. At first pinched in annoyance they soon flew wide in fright.

The glass was pushed aside hastily and the teenager’s full shaggy, blackhaired head poked out to survey the older man.

“Shit.”

Had he been less damaged Stan would have made a quip at the eloquence of youth these days. Instead he only groaned. The lanky teen reached a hand out, stopping just short of touching the wounds.

“What kind of creature?”

“A fucking manticore,” he growled from behind gritted teeth, “Someone was able to hide and control a MANTICORE in fucking New York!”

The teen shivered.

“And you took care of it, right?”

“Of course I did. I’m a professional. But I won’t be anything for much longer if you don’t help me.”

“What?! Hey, this wasn’t- I only give you information man! I can’t do anything with - this!” he gestured frantically at the mess of Stan’s body.

Stan fixed the teen with the best withering glare he could, considering his condition.

“You gotta have some of it, distilled or raw. Wake ‘em up if you have to. I’ll take the risk.”

The teen folded under Stan’s determination and the head withdrew. There was a shuffling and clatter, before he returned with a small glass vial.

“They give me a little for personal use,” he explained. “It’s clean. But if I run out they’ll ask questions . . .”

“You think your freak parents scare me? I’ll take ‘em both on. Later. Right now, just give me the goddamn juice or I’m going to fucking DIE. Right here in front of you. Do you want that?”

The teen pulled up his shoulders and sniffed, a feeble attempt at controlling his obvious fear and regaining his pride. Shaking fingers pulled the stopper free, pouring the clear liquid out into his palm before pressing it to Stan’s side. He rubbed the liquid into the skin and wounds. It shimmered upon contact, fading as it was absorbed.

“How long does it take to work?”

“You should be clear in an hour or two. But, I can’t do this every time you get beat up, Mister Pines. You’re a – uh – I guess my family likes you, but my parents are still not gonna give handouts to every human they like.”

“Nah, I know,” an intoxicating numbness was overtaking him. Had the teen not told him the stuff was clean he would be worried. “Stay with me, bleeding heart. Talk or whatever, but you gotta keep me awake. I’m going to get home tonight.”

_* * * * *_

**1997**

He had been waiting for a year. Sure he had Abuelita, but she was not the same. Now there were no fortnight visits to look forward to, no one who actually liked to read books about dinosaurs with him, no one who slipped him cookies when Abuelita wasn’t looking, no one who beamed quite so widely when he showed how much he had grown.

Soos Ramirez was glad it was finally over.

“Dad!” The small boy ran forward, grasping the man’s leg in a tight hug. There was a loud yell from up above.

“What the hell?!”

The ten year old looked up to be hit with nauseating shock. This man was not his father.

“Oh, gosh, I’m s-sorry Mister I-“ he struggled to push an apology out his quickly constricting throat. The tears welled up as he frantically willed them to leave, but his efforts only made them come faster until he was sobbing in the middle of the hallway. He was still holding onto the stranger’s pant legs.

A large hand pulled his head up. Through blurry eyes he made out a wide, square face.

“I’m moving into this new apartment,” the face said, “Where’s your Dad? Do you live in this building?”

“Y-yeah. I’m in 618. A-and I don’t know! I- I haven’t seen Dad for- for a year. And I thought-“ another wail. He had been hoping so hard and had rushed to conclusions at the sight of broad shoulders. “I’m stupid! Stupid Soos!”

“Soos?”

“That’s my name?”

“Ah, okay. Well . . . Soos. The Super is fixing my stove. You know him right?”

“Yeah. He’s a friend of Abuelita’s.”

“So while he’s working, do you want to come sit in my kitchen and have some cookies?”

“I- I’d like that very much, Mister.”

“Call me, Stan. Stan Pines.”

“Mister Pines.”

“Eh, close enough. Now let go of my leg so I can open this door.”

The Superintendent was leaning over the stove, thinking of how he could find a job that didn’t involve handywork. Only in the cheapest complexes like this one would a Superintendent have to do double duty as a handy man.

“Heya, Dice!” came a familiar chirping voice. Soos Ramirez was hovering in the doorway. His face was red, but a smile pinched up his hamster cheeks. Stan Pines was already rifling through a cupboard.

“Found him outside. Kid thought I was his Dad. He was upset so I thought it was okay to bring him inside, cause you’re here and he knows you.”

Dice Kelly nodded in silent acknowledgement, before turning back to his task. He made a mental note to inform Imelda Ramirez of this latest development. Soos and Stan Pines meeting had the potential to complicate, but he firmly believed in fate. If they were meant to befriend each other he would not stop them. If Imelda’s plans fell to pieces it would be no skin off his back.

Either way, Fiddleford McGucket was sure to get a kick out of the whole situation.

_* * * * *_

**MAY, 2012**

The small Korean girl pulled a letter from her backpack and held it out to him. The initials NW were emblazoned across the front in shining golden calligraphy.

“Oh my, is this for me?”

“You are Gideon Gleeful?”

“Correct.”

“Then it for you.”

As soon as he took it from her hand, she turned her back and ran down the street. What a shame no pretty girls ever stayed. But he was too good for her anyway.

The pompadoured boy turned and pulled out a letter opener from his desk, gently peeling the back flap.

_THE NORTHWESTS ARE HONORED TO REQUEST YOUR PRESENCE_

_AT THE TWELFTH BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION OF THEIR DAUGHTER_

_PACIFICA ELISE NORTHWEST_

_AND_

_HER FIRST PERFORMANCE OF RENATUS_

_ON THE THIRTY FIRST DAY OF JULY, TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE_

_GLORY TO THE NORTHWEST NAME, MAY IT BURN ETERNAL_

Gideon Gleeful squealed, hugging the paper to his chest. “Ah, Pacifica! You are sure to be lovely. I am quite looking forward to adding you to my collection.”

_* * * * *_

**JANUARY, 2012**

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to go to work.” Fiddleford McGucket told his wife, as he pulled on a heavy winter coat from the peg, “There’s been a break in.”

“At the shop? All your abominations out roaming the streets, I can’t imagine.”

“Worse.” a scarf and hat now, “the warehouse in Brooklyn. Ivan’s flown the coop. We suspect he’s taken the prototypes with him, either he’s already released them or planning to. Bud and Toby sent messages that they’re on the hunt trying to do damage control, but those two are inept.”

“So you have to fix it yourself?”

“Of course.” The door was unlocked now as he stepped outside. “Don’t wait up and don’t expect me to do anything at home tonight.”

“I never do," she said, but he was already gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on ages. Everyone has similar ages to the show; this AU also is mostly set in 2012.
> 
> Exceptions:  
> Stanley/Stanford Pines/Carla McCorkle - 40  
> Fiddleford McGucket - 45  
> Rosemary McGucket - 42  
> Tate McGucket - 21  
> Soos Ramirez - 25  
> Robbie's Parents (Alice and Leslie) - Spoilers
> 
> In case it wasn't obvious the teen was Robbie and Imelda is Soos' grandma. Daisuke "Dice" Kelly is a Japanese-Irish OC. Other than being friends w/ Grandma Ramirez, he and his sister will make appearances in the Gideon, Candy and Grenda plotlines.


	2. First Few Desperate Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan is called to a strange case, Fiddleford meets someone both new and familiar, and Wendy is just trying to hold everything together.

**PRESENT - JUNE, 2012**

He was being hit in his sleep. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was annoying as all hell. Didn’t he work hard enough to not be assaulted in his own bed? A lazy hand moved to swat at the offending intruder on his dreams.

“Uncle Stan wake uppppppp.”

He cracked a crusted eye open to see his hand caught in Mabel’s small grip. The twelve-year-old girl’s lips were puckered in disapproval. Her twin brother was standing some distance away, gingerly twiddling his thumbs. “Hi,” he said, upon seeing that Stan was awake, “your alarm didn't go off I guess and we were hungry and-“

“I made breakfast though!” Mabel interrupted, releasing Stan to bend and pick something up off the floor. Stan found himself face to face with . . . an unidentifiable range of food organized by colour on a wide plate.

“Mabel, did you use the oven?!”

“Psh, no. Who do you think I am? Playing with things as dangerous as an oven, of COURSE I didn’t touch it.”

“She used the microwave though,” Dipper said, a look of horror passing over his face at the memory. “Uncle Stan, please come make us breakfast.”

He pushed himself onto his elbows and looked at the clock. 9:30am winked backed at him.

“Shi-shallots and gravy! Kids, I don’t got time I’m supposed to be at work in half an hour. Isn’t Wendy here?”

“She texted that the train was broken so she’s late,” Dipper explained, holding up his cell phone.

“That no good teenager probably just wanted to sleep in. Can’t blame her.” Stan scrubbed at his eyes. “Okay, I’ll give you some money and when Wendy gets here you all can go out to the diner."

Dipper's eyes grew wide. "Uncle Stan are you dying?"

"Why would you think that?"

"You're really gonna give us money to go out to eat?"

"Of course not, this is gonna be on your mother's dime. Now text Wendy that if she’s not here in ten minutes I’m gonna dock her pay.”

“You’re the best!” Mabel bounced off the bed, leaving room for Stan to stand and stretch.

“Now both of you get out of my hair. I gotta shower and get dressed.”

When he finally came out of the bedroom, fully uniformed and his black duffle slung over a shoulder Mabel was waiting with an open sticker book.

“This one’s for today!” she plastered on back of his hand. WHATS COOKIN GOOD LOOKIN, it read.

Stan grinned. “Thanks sweetie. So, where’s you brother?”

“Wendy’s here.”

“Gotcha,” he nodded in understanding.

“Mornin' Stan.” The redhaired girl was sitting at the small kitchen island. A gooey-eyed Dipper had drawn a chair right up next to her.

“Morning, Wendy. I’m gonna run. Here’s $40 bucks. Don’t let them completely rot their teeth with syrup. I know cavities are an important part of childhood, but I refuse to take flack for not keepin those pearly whites intact.”

“Roger.”

“Have a good day at work!” Mabel held out her arms, he leaned down so she could kiss his cheek.

Once Stan had finally left for work, Dipper’s faced morphed to concern. “He said he’s gonna dock your pay, Wendy.”

“Don’t worry,” she ruffled his hair fondly, “Stan’s all talk, but trust me he’s got a good heart. Now who wants to see how many French fries we can stuff in our mouths?”

* * * * *

“You’re late.”

“Lay off, Durland. The 6 train wasn’t working. Sitter couldn’t get there until 9:30. I’m not leaving those kids alone.”

The buzzcut wearing man drummed his fingers in disapproval. “Two kids with your job. Irresponsible.”

“Have I ever been responsible to you?” Stan winked, leaning both elbows on the desk.

The Deputy furrowed his uni-brow, sinking his face down into the steam of his coffee and taking an unnecessarily nosy swig.

“So boss-man, what’s on the plate today? Please tell me just some low level robberies.”

“Chief is coming,” Durland mumbled into his drink.

A salacious smile spread across Stan’s face. “Trying to knock us boys into shape to look good for your man? That explains the sudden pain in the ass you’ve become. Or are you the one who takes it?”

Stan would swear he could see the steam coming out of Durland’s ears.

“I’m your SUPERIOR, Pines! How dare you! I’ll write you up!”

“Oooh, hear that? He’ll write me up.” Stan waved his hands mockingly. “The man who’s sleeping with his boss is gonna write me up.”

“Disrespect!” Durland screeched, slamming the cup down on the table. The coffee sloshed out, dripping onto the carpet.

Outside the office a passing patrol officer chortled to himself. The Detective and the Deputy going at it again, just another day at work.

The habitual squabble was cut short by the arrival of the Chief.

“Calm down, darlin’.”

The familiar portly man ambled into the room, placing a quick kiss on the cheek of the now blushing Deputy. Stan enjoyed Blubbs’ visits. Durland always mellowed out in his lover’s presence. But Stan also hated the man on principle. Blubbs was never the bearer of good news. The Chief of the entire Borough visiting a single, small precinct was a grim omen.

“I’m not here on a social call,” Blubbs said.

“I shoulda known.”

The Chief used one arm to encircle the shoulders of the still incensed Deputy while handing Stan a manila envelope with the other. He gave the contents a cursory scan.

“But this is on the Upper East Side? What happened to Blandin?”

“Hit with some cursed fire. He should be fine, but the burns reactivate if he gets near anything magical. Until they can find a replacement or cure they’re pulling from anywhere that’ll give. You can take care of it, right?”

“You know me. I'll do anything if I get that check at the end of the day.”

* * * * *

Stan hated the Upper East Side. Dripping with obnoxious wealth and a cocky confidence in their perpetual safety, it was anathema to everything he had ever experienced. Thankfully, he rarely had occasion to visit. The boroughs traded and loaned out their Supernaturalists regularly, it was common to get injured in the line of duty, yet the Upper East Side survived with only one magic-user on their force. Blendin Blandin was notoriously inept, but he covered all of the 59th to 96th vertical by himself, simply because nothing special ever happened here. Nothing bigger than the occasional pesky gargoyle at least, until the last month when increases in abnormal and magical deaths were cropping up all over the city. Stan wasn’t surprised that Blandin hadn’t been able to handle himself when the water boiled.

The body was laid out on the floor, stiff but still very much complete. Stan could immediately sense the planes of the spell that boxed the form in, keeping the man from decomposing.

“Who froze him?”

The officers on the scene were too straight backed for Stan’s liking. “That unknown is primarily why you were brought on the case. Someone obviously wanted to make a scene, attract the attention of the Supernaturalists. The housekeeper initially called this in as an accident. She thought his woodpecker had attacked him. The bird is missing, but no woodpecker is strong enough to kill a man, in my opinion. Besides, to freeze him like this, someone had to be here immediately after the death,” the man introduced as Lolph said, his voice stable as if reciting a phone book.

“The housekeeper?”

“We received this case yesterday morning. Blandin did a basic activity trace on her yesterday afternoon and she cleared. She was cleaning another apartment right before coming here and then calling us. That was all he was able to confirm, until he got himself blasted last night on another investigation. Now you’re here to pick up the pieces.”

“Fulton Khandewal had been a well known eccentric,” said the man introduced as Dundgren. “Various residents attested that he considered himself married to his woodpecker.”

“Different strokes for different folks. So, can I lower the shield?”

“Can you put it back up again?”

“Not as securely. He’ll still decompose, but at a slower rate.”

“If you must. It’s a shame your skills are so limited. You already express more competence than that nit Blandin did. I swear if he wasn't a blood-mage he’d never have made it this far in the force.”

“Yeah, some people have everything,” Stan said solemnly.

He approached the body and laid a hand against the magical barrier. An audible crack proved it was successfully broken. Gloved hands reached down to probe the injury.

The Indian man’s neck was pierced deep in a triangle of three locations. Stan didn’t have any experience with woodpeckers attacking humans, but the effect looked like what we would have expected. Not the marks of any creature Stan recognized, deep punctures with frayed edges. The man lay on his side so blood had soaked through the edges of his grey moustache and down his shirt. The aorta had been severed. Stan made to undo the man’s clothes, pulling limbs up to peer at each inch of the man’s brown skin. His body was blank. No symbols. No other magical traces.

“I’m not finding anything. This poor sap died from blood loss.”

Dundgren ground his teeth. “That gets us nowhere.”

Lolph was holding the large gold cage that had been lying on the floor next to the body. “Look at this thing,” he mused, “Bird must of been deluxe. Probably very expensive. What a way to go.”

“I’m still not convinced the woodpecker was an accident,” Stan continued. “Why did the person who froze him choose this man? How did they know exactly when to come here to do it and escape without leaving evidence? There’s still a mystery here, even if it isn’t cause of death.”

“How much more time do you need?” Dundgren asked.

“Nothing else today. Right now, I’m gonna jsut take pictures and re-freeze the body. I’ll come back perhaps tomorrow.”

“Hey, Pines, here’s something for your file,” Lolph said, walking over to Stan and holding the cage out for examination. “You recognize this?”

On the bottom of the cage was an indented insignia, small and unassuming,

Stan did recognize it.

“All right, that’s a good lead, fellas. I really gotta be going now. Just let me close up.”

He unzipped the duffle at his knee, pulling out a battered, maroon book. It held no title, only a six-fingered hand cut out in the front. Stan flipped through it with ten years worth of familiarity, until he reached the page on barrier spells. Then, he cracked his knuckles and got down to work.

* * * * *

It was a wonderful day for a picnic.

The two girls arrived around eleven. Grenda had brought her best watercress sandwiches and Candy had rice, sausages and salad wrapped up in a Hello Kitty lunchbox. Soos had come over to deal with a leaky faucet, but the five current occupants of the Pines home had roped him into making his best gazpacho. So while the two-level apartment was full with chattering and the adventure of cutting up vegetables, Dipper Pines took advantage of the activity to slip upstairs and into his Uncle Stan’s room.

He had no idea what he was looking for.

He pulled the bedside table’s drawers open first, dumping the contents on the floor. An old Torah, rectangular glasses, pain medication, a guide to boatmaking, and a list of phone numbers with initials beside them: ShP, CM, DC, WC, IR, SR, RV, JK, KK. How old fashioned could their Uncle get? He pulled out his phone and took a quick picture.

“Watcha doin’?”

“AHHH, WENDY!”

“Sh, keep your pants on. I bet you have a good reason for looking through your Uncle’s stuff. Spill.”

He handed her an old photograph from inside his vest. There was a single subject, a man with a cleft chin and thick nose. Intelligent eyes peered out of large glasses. His hair held the familiar curls of a Pines.

“Woah, is this Stan?”

“No. That’s my Dad. His twin brother.”

Wendy whistled.

“I think Stan might know something about my Dad’s disappearance, “ Dipper explained. “He left when I was two so I don’t have any personal memories and Mom won’t say anything so Stan is my next best bet. I have all summer to look for clues here! And I just found this!”

Wendy looked down at the boy. His face was vibrant with excitement as he waved his arms, holding the phone out for her to see. Everyone always pegged Mabel as the most dynamic of the two, but that was only if you had never seen Dipper on a mission. The boy latched onto ideas and stuck with then to almost self-destructive ends. His dedication to truth was admirable, but in this moment it made Wendy sad.

Not everything had to have a supernatural explanation. Sometimes fathers just left. The Hispanic man in the kitchen was a testament to that.

“Uh, yeah . . . maybe you’re right, but Dipper right now we gotta get back down before the others realize we’re missing.”

“Youre right! You’re right!” Dipper gathered up the items, shoving them back in the drawer. He hovered as he rearranged them, tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration until he decided upon a satisfactory order that wouldn’t look suspicious.

“So, this picture, one more clue for now. The first number is Mom’s, SR is Soos and WC is you, but I don’t recognize any of the others . . . I have to learn how to reverse number search, you can do it straight on the internet, did you know that?”

Wendy shut the door to Stan’s room.

“Nah, man. That’s super cool!”

As they rejoined the others and Dipper was waxing lyrical about all he could do with only his computer, Wendy thought about the list. She knew he wouldn’t find most of the owners of those numbers on the pages of the Internet. At least the numbers and other objects weren’t physically hazardous; Stan would have warded the drawer otherwise. But information was dangerous and if Dipper found out enough he would invariably grow more curious, seeking out darker places to look. And if he did, she would be right with him.

But for today, happy friends and good food could distract him. He was still a twelve-year-old boy, after all.

* * * * *

The symbol had been no spell mark.

Stan gazed with trepidation at the marquee above the storefront. Simple black roman lettering spelled out the name of the store against a cream background: MCGUCKET’S MENAGERIE, EXOTIC ANIMALS AND ACCESSORIES. Underneath it all was the symbol from the birdcage: an eye with an X crossed through it.

He had never given the store much thought before; it was only a familiar sight on his walk home from the precinct headquarters. How had he never realized how odd it was? The store had one window, not the single large rectangular blocks of most places. This window thrust outward, the top arching into a triangle. The grid crossed in close diagonals, cleverly abstracting the view of any inside goings on except for patches of greenery. At added suspicion, the glass was frosted and the door solid wood. Stan concluded it must have been a whitewashed, converted brownstone. But weren’t pet stores supposed to have boxes of puppies in the window? Or readily show all the possible toys one could buy? There was nothing outwardly enticing one to enter McGucket’s Menagerie.

Stan pulled at the curved door handle and entered.

He was promptly attacked by foliage. Short ferns scraped the edge of his legs, tall plants poked him in the ear with their wide leaves, and he nearly tripped into a extravagantly blooming cactus. He batted ineffectively at the flora as he moved forward, until he finally found space to breathe again. Blinking at the sudden yellow lamplight, he realized the shop was laid out as if it were a forest clearing. The plants occupied only a few feet on the peripherals of the unexpectedly large room. The center was empty, except for the wood floor and a few scattered red and white pillows.

“It does take time to get used to.”

The voice came from a previously unnoticed moss green blocky counter to his left. It stood flush against the wall of plants. A girl with golden skin and shinier hair looked at him with unbridled curiosity, her magazine forgotten on the countertop. She giggled as he frowned at her.

“This is a pet shop?”

“Ooooh, someone’s new. Yeah, it’s a pet shop. You looking for something?”

“Where are the animals?”

“Didn’t you read the sign outside? Exotic animals. We bring them out to the showroom if someone wants something specific to see. And if you aren’t sure what you like, you can have a talk with Mr. McGucket and he’ll help you find the right one for you.”

“This McGucket is the owner of the shop?”

“Yup. He deals with almost everything. I’m just here to help out with feeding and cleaning and basic stuff. Like if you wanted a puppy. Do you want a puppy?”

“I do got two kids at home . . . “

“Aw, how sweet! I bet they’d love a pet.”

“Yeah, well, not from this shop.” Stan squared his shoulders, painting on his best professional face. “I’m here to talk to Mr. McGucket. Police business.”

Her mouth moved to form a silent O. She backed out from behind the counter and ran to an unassuming door hidden beneath a curtain of bamboo. Leaning through the doorway, she called out for her employer, before motioning for Stan to join her.

Fiddleford McGucket had his back to him when Stan entered. The shop owner had been scribbling along a whiteboard. He turned slowly, as if acknowledging Stan were a chore he was not at all invested in performing.

He was tall and slender, accentuated by the trim cut of the salmon colored suit and thin purple tie. Wild brown hair swirled above his head and down the back of his neck, fading to a light grey at the temples. McGucket had large ears, pale skin, and a weak chin overcompensated by a gargantuan nose upon which was perched a light pair of round spectacles.

Narrowed, suspicious blue eyes fixed on Stan and the ex-boxer felt himself grow inexplicably hot under the collar as he was looked up and down. After an agonizing minute of tension, McGucket’s face softened, appeased of some deep worry.

“A police officer?” the shopkeeper’s tone was light and nonchalant, innocence magnified by the unmistakable Southern accent. Stan did not trust him at all.

“Yeah, and I got some questions for you buddy.”

“I reckon I shall have to accommodate you then,” McGucket sighed dramatically. “Melody, leave us please?”

“Yes, sir.” The girl removed herself. The door closing was like the locking of a cage.

McGucket gestured at a wooden chair for Stan as he primly sat upon a white couch. He crossed his legs, entwining his fingers above his knees. The edges of light grey pinstriped socks peeked out from his pant legs. The whole pastel outfit was ridiculous, Stan was surprised he didn’t have a flower in his button hole to top it all off.

Stan grudgingly sat on the proffered chair, spreading his legs and crossing his arms.

McGucket’s nostrils flared at the display, although Stan could not pinpoint the emotion behind the action.

“I’ll cut to the chase. Do you know a Fulton Khandewal?”

“Oh, of course!” McGucket’s face lit up, “he was a common customer of mine. I’d never seen a man who loved birds as much as he did. Cardinals, owls, raptors, orioles. Would you believe it, but he was most fond of woodpeckers. Adored them.”

“Maybe he loved them too much,” Stan said under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing to you,” he waved dismissively, before leaning in to deliver the punchline. “Well, guess what. He’s dead.”

McGucket’s head bucked in surprise and Stan felt a surge of satisfaction at disarming the other man. He looked so silly blinking stupidly in shock, like a deer in the headlights.

“I suppose you’re investigating it then.”

“Right on the money, Mister McGucket.”

“I’m a Doctor.”

“A what?”

“I have a PhD in robotics. I’d appreciate if you used my full title.”

“Fine.” Why were academics always so prissy about titles? “And I’m a Detective. Don’t you forget it.”

“I’d never dream of it, Mister Detective.”

“Now that we got that dumb shit out of the way, get real with me Doc: what kinda joint you running here? Real shady, a pet store with no animals. Sorriest excuse for a cover business I’ve ever seen.”

“I take offense.” McGucket’s jaw quivered in contained indignation. “I can’t let them out now, since most are feeding or sleeping. I do not think I should have to prove myself when you’re the one who dropped in so very late, laying accusations left in right. Do you even have a warrant?”

“Don’t play the victim here, it’s not gonna work. That woodpecker killed him. A man is dead, because of you. What do you have to say about that?”

“People die and it’s nobody’s fault. That’s how the world works.” 

Suddenly. McGucket was standing over him. And there was a hand on his arm. Stan felt no hard grip or pulling, just a gentle cradle by firm fingers. Stan wondered what that hand would feel like without the fabric of his sleeve between them.

“Poor Mister Detective,” McGucket’s voice was low, “It must be very hard for you to deal with death. Since you seem an honorable dear, I’ll help you out with your case to the best of my ability. Come by tomorrow and let's chat.”

Stan stood abruptly, knocking McGucket’s hand away. “Oh, I’ll be back.” His voice sounded unecessarily loud and frantic to his own ears. “And I’ll bring a bona fide search warrant.”

He stomped his way out of the room, next wrestling his way through the vegetation to leave the shop. McGucket followed at a leisurely pace, listening to the colorful curses and watching the rippling movement of his back until Stan had disappeared into the street.

“Are you in trouble?” Melody, asked.

“No, he’s no danger at all. But, I like him. He’s got grit.”

The Pines family must have a gene for determination, he thought.

* * * * *

The itching started around five o’clock. By the time Stan arrived home at eight Wendy felt she might explode. Dipper had noticed her pacing (that boy noticed everything), but she had pulled a face about “female problems” and his concern was replaced with embarrassed terror. Poor kid.

As soon as the older Pines was in the door she rushed passed him, sprinting down the stairwell and into the dusk shrouded outside. She knew the nearest alley, five blocks down, right next to the Valentino Funeral home.

Three minutes after the girl disappeared into the shadows, a sleek red wolf emerged and bounded down the street. The people in this neighborhood were used to weirder things, she wasn’t going to hide now. The burst of energy felt blissful. Her claws tingled, her mouth and teeth aching and ready.

Stan would never forgive her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The twins mother's name is Shoshanna Pines, hence ShP. Out of the rest of Stan's phone numbers two are OCs. Can you figure out the others?


	3. Choked Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Society of Blind Eye has a new member, Wendy channels her energy, Fiddleford pays a visit, and Stan doesn't like sweet tea.

Thompson Alexander would be the first in line to announce his own mediocrity. Slightly overweight in stature, with a mousy flop of brown hair, donning neutral colored clothes, he was the epitome of unassuming. Thompson liked it this way. He tiptoed through the halls of his high school as if the cement floors were still wet, fearing leaving any Thompson shaped imprints on the world around him. In a way he was no different from the other teens that smoked pot in the courtyard behind his apartment or left beer bottles rolling down his street. Thompson sought no permanence in failure or success, only current comfort. So, he dipped toes in social circles enough so everyone knew his name, studying just enough to see that B on the top of the paper. Still his mother adored her average son; at least he was safe and sound.

He was five when he first met them. He had been lying restless in his bed, a new apartment, a child’s fears of the unknown rattling his brain so as to keep him from sleep. The moonlight from the window emphasized the starkness of the yet undecorated walls.

Except for the mirror on the back of the door. Thompson watched the moonlight fill the mirror, reflective silver switching to a cold white.

And then it fell, the white light like liquid sliding off the smooth glass to puddle on the floor. From there it bubbled up, levitating in the air, spheres coalescing and elongating to create form, that of a slender young woman. She yawned, turning unimpressed gaze around the room, before locking eyes with him. Thompson hugged the blanket closer.

“G-go away,” he whispered into the cloth.

Her eyes widened in surprise. She stepped closer.

“Please, ma’am, please go away.”

Her face held a look of desperate hope as she bent to look him head on. “You can tell I’m a woman? Was a woman?”

Thompson was confused. “Y-yes?”

The woman threw her arms around him, but he felt nothing, only a wind hitting his body. She drew back, hands still leaving chilled marks on his face. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, you poor boy, don’t be scared. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Once they knew about him, more visited. And Thompson learned that all they wanted to do was talk. Most were old, but those were the least interested in him. The ones he talked to with frequency were young men and women, cut down in their prime. These people were sorrowful, spinning tales of risk and unforeseen catastrophe. Thompson often wondered why they chose to talk to him and not each other, but he soon realized it was the fact that he was young and alive. They were all too steeped in shared misery to stand each other.

They dictated letters, which he left in mailboxes signed anonymously. They asked to be led to where their family was, for they could not open books or computers to see maps. Many wanted to be read to, newspapers and novels. This Thompson could do. It was reassuring to feel useful.

He resolved not to take risks. He did not want to end up like them. Everything in life had consequences; the fear of the unknown followed him with every step. He couldn’t get too friendly otherwise other students might invite him to a party and on the drive home he’d be hit by a drunk driver. He couldn’t earn superb grades or he’d get into a good college and make good money at an executive job, until a colleague could grow jealous of his success and bring a gun into the office. He couldn’t fall in love in case his lover left him and he killed himself. All ambitions could end in misery.

Thus, Thompson didn’t want to create or find purpose. If he had a purpose it could be taken away from him. But when the head of the Gleeful family showed up at his door and made him an offer, Thompson took it.

“You might die and you might not. Your life is irrelevant, it is others we are saving.”

It would be a relief, he thought, to not have to live for himself.

* * * * *

**PRESENT - JUNE, 2012**

The bird met Fiddleford on the street, swooping to perch on his shoulder. He had been wondering when she’d decide to come back; for the past two days he’d sensed her biding time in Central Park.

“Do you miss him? I’m so sorry.” He idly pet at soft feathers as he bent down to pull open the metal door imbedded in the sidewalk, careful not to move hastily and dislodge the animal. No one took notice of the figure disappearing into the Brooklyn underground. He pulled the doors shut above him. Now submerged in darkness a hand clutched the wall as he cautiously descended.

“It is unseen,” a voice echoed.

He reached the bottom of the staircase.

“It is unseen,” two now. “It is unseen.” All the voices joined in, a chorus of gender and age.

“Welcome, Fiddleford McGucket,” the guardian announced, for he was the only one who could see through the inky blackness. This voice was singular, plummy with full English vowels.

“It is unseen,” Fiddleford replied, reaching out to grasp at the expected proffered fabric. The woodpecker lifted from his shoulder as he pulled the robe over his head, small rush of wings fading into the void. The same void that dissipated as the tattooed man clapped his hands and candles blazed. The room held about thirty people, all clad in the same robe as he.

“I apologize for taking so long. As many of may have heard, we lost a member of ours today. This is a point of no worry. He simply failed to fulfill one of my store contracts.”

There were silent solemn nods across the assembled crowd, except for one who was shorter and stockier, donning a robe that pooled around his ankles.

“What kind of contract? What did he do?” The sound was adenoidal and pubescent, tinged with anxiety.

“Ah, you must be new, fella.”

“Yes, sir!” The boy’s voice cracked in his zealousness.

“How old are you? Fifteen? Awfully young.”

A pear shaped figured stepped forward, the hint of a garish Hawaiian shirt poking out of the collar of his robe. He placed an arm around the shorter boy. “One of mine. Just picked him up four weeks ago. He’s a ghost-seer.”

Fiddleford cocked his head in interest. “My, my, that is unusual. And what have you learned from the ghosts?”

The boy shuffled his feet. What was the right answer? Thompson had always known the safe answer before, but standing before the leader of the Society of the Blind Eye he felt at a loss. The man’s figure was not imposing, but there was a disconcerting weightiness to his presence. The edges of sharp lenses scrutinized him from head to toe, the actual eyes cast in shadow.

“I – I learned there’s a lot of ways to die.”

Fiddleford laughed then, mouth gaping wide where the assembled could see the gold glint of a tooth cap. The sound hit high, echoing against the ceiling. Several bodies flinched.

“Good answer! Well, I’m pleased to make the acquaintance of such an enlightened young man. I’m sure you’ll learn plenty here under Bud’s tutelage. But, here’s another piece of wisdom for you. Contracts are made for a reason. Don’t break them.”

The sudden gravity in the Leader’s voice gripped like a vice, Thompson clutched at his chest where the figure of an eye had been branded less than an hour ago. He made no response to the Leader’s words, only wiped at his eyes, as an unwelcome wetness collected there. Fiddleford’s mouth flattened, displeased at the display of emotion. Bud would have to train that out of him.

“Enough of this,” he waved his hand, dismissively turning away from the sniffling teen. Bodies parted like the Red Sea as he began to move towards the wooden cabinet that dominated the room. It grew upwards ten feet, spread out wide against the back wall. There were no hinged doors, only the outline of a single triangle in the center. Fiddleford traced the indent with his finger, before very gently blowing against the varnished surface. The triangle glowed blue and began to grow until it’s point touched the top of the cabinet and the door disappeared entirely. The machines inside gleamed, their spherical glass canisters empty, polished handles calling to be held.

“No time for dallying! The night moves quickly. Take your equipment and let’s get to work.”

Tonight, as every night, under the blessing of the moon and harsh glow of neon, red robed figures ran the streets of New York. And, as every night, no one would remember them.

* * * * *

She pawed at where the door connected with the ground, claws adding to the abundance of marks that frayed the edge. There was no reply.

Wendy circled nervously, before approaching again and yowling deep in her throat. Finally, a figure appeared in the doorway. The woman’s silken black hair was pulled back in a bun, her body wrapped in a traditional summer yukata in green.

“Honestly dear, you must show a little restraint. I’ve told you, this entrance is for those who absolutely cannot use the front.”

The wolf sat back on her haunches, doing her best to look remorseful. The woman knelt and scratched her behind the ears.

“How could I resist those eyes? Come on in then. There’s a load just about to leave.”

She was led into a grim hallway, blank walls and a single fluorescent light. At one end was a semi-opaque screen filtering out all but the warmer yellow of the restaurant behind it. The sound of conversation and clatter was just audible, but Wendy had no time to decipher it. There was an elevator to her immediate right. The woman held the door open as the wolf settled into the small space between the three other occupants.

One was a small man in a white tank top and baseball cap. He was tossing a coin up and down in his palm, bouncing on his heels with excitement. A hulking man with heavily tattooed arms stood stoic. She recognized Mr. Poolcheck, his gills flared as he noticed her.

The woman grabbed an old handheld phone from beside the elevator. There were no buttons to dial before she spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Sending four down.”

She appeared to receive confirmation from across the line; the doors slid shut. Wendy felt the familiar drop of her stomach as the elevator lurched downward. There would be only one stop.

The doors parted to show Candy Chiu seated on a stool too tall for her height. Her small sneakered feet kicked in midair, she had a headset on and her hand on a large red button.

“Hello, Wendy!” she called out, as the group moved past her. The wolf nodded vaguely at the girl she had seen splayed out on Mabel Pines’ bed only three hours ago, but the yawning cavern they found themselves in arrested her focus.

There were around five hundred people amd creatures tightly packed into the subterranean space, jostling and running and milling about, creating a cacophony of noise, buzzing and growls and humans yells and indescribables. Above their heads whizzed small balls of light, moving fast so that the shadows danced along the bodies packed together.

She weaved through the crowd, emerging in her usual human form in front of a black tent. A man stood on a table, gesticulating wildly. He had the same hair and round face of the woman aboveground. In one hand he held a box of slips, in the other a microphone attached to speakers at his feet.

“MAKE YOUR BETS. RIGHT HERE PLACE YOUR BETS.”

“Dice!” she yelled to be heard above the din, tugging at the man’s pant leg for good measure. “I want in.”

“No problemo. What’s your amount?”

“No, I want IN.”

“Just your luck little lady. We had a drop out, so you can go on next round.”

She beamed. “Thanks a million.”

“You always make me a pretty buck, how could I resist.”

 

“WENDY WINS AGAIN!” the sound of Grenda’s baritone blared through the sound system. The crowd went ecstatic, whooping and hollering, but their voices were white noise in her ears. Wendy did not come for fame; she would probably be content with back alley ring fights. All she needed was the shot of adrenaline with each fight, letting loose all her pent up tension. She licked at her elongated canines, and through the soreness she was grateful the bruises would not show on her human skin.

* * * * *

“Pacifica, you may come in.”

The young girl looked like a small, lost animal under the height of the domed ceiling. She entered with her head bowed, blonde bangs shielding her face, kneeling on the carpet between the two men, hands fisted in her taffeta dress. Fiddleford leaned down to place two fingers on the pulse at her neck. Then a hand pulled her jaw down to peer into her mouth.

“If her practice has been satisfactory all that’s left is to keep her healthy. Have you been using the diet I recommended?”

“Of course, down to the letter. Or so the cook tells me.”

“The cook? I wouldn’t trust an external source. I’ll bring you my own special mix. Security is important, I wouldn’t want to see the show ruined.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Preston Northwest agreed.

“Do you have any idea to whom you will be giving her?”

“We expect many candidates to vie for top consideration in the coming months. While decisions may change, so far our best choice is Gleeful heir. He’s young and I must say I am not fond of the family, but the magical ancestry is undeniable. The combination of our lines would be unstoppable.”

“Yes, that is a good choice,” Fiddleford mused, raising the fall of golden hair to expose the back of Pacifica’s neck. He ran a forefinger down her spine.

“I don’t even know him,” she spat, eyes fixed on the Persian carpet. “What if I don’t like him? How am I supposed to marry someone I don’t like?” A small flame flared where Fiddleford was touching her skin. He drew back, sucking on the offended digit, before plunging it into the prepared medicinal ice bath on the floor.

“Liking someone does not guarantee a good marriage,” he said morosely, sweeping her hair back into place with the other hand.

“The Doctor’s right. By the way, how is the wife Fiddleford?”

“You and I both know you don’t care. But for the sake of small talk, she is . . . difficult as always. Her antagonism towards me is worse since our son has been home for the summer.”

“Pity. Marriage is so much easier without children.”

“Well, we never had that choice,” Fiddleford said. “Here, I think we’re about done. Pacifica, you’ve been very good today.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. She stood and curtseyed.

“Thank you for your time.” Preston extended a hand, and Fiddleford rose to his feet and gripped it loosely, the barest semblance of a handshake.

“Whatever you require, as long as you pay.”

“I always do.”

* * * * *

Dipper knew he was caught as soon as they came up the stairs. Stan stood against the bedroom door, hands on his hips.

“Which one of you went in my room?”

Mabel turned to look at her brother, her look of confusion as incriminating as his sudden sweating.

“Okay, maybe I did. But Uncle Stan I just wanted to know if you had anything in there about our Dad. You do right? He must have left something with you, pictures or letters or journals . . .?“

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry to disappoint kid, but the answer is no. I didn’t keep anything. Stanford Pines was a no good smart-aleck who didn’t care about his family. It’s better that you never knew him. Now get to bed, I’m tried of this conversation.”

“But it’s only nine!” Mabel whined.

“I wanna see those teeth being brushed before I count to ten or you’re going to bed at nine every day for the next month!”

 

He sat cross-legged above the covers. The dime store flashlight’s beam swept back and forth, the pages of the Journal rustling as he read. Mabel watched him from her side of the room, the seeds of worry roiling in her stomach.

“Dipper, why do have to go and make things all awkward? Living here is the most fun I’ve had in years. I don’t want Stan to hate us.”

“I’m not making things awkward. I just need to know if he’s keeping any secrets and he obviously is! I didn’t get much today, but I found this!” he took out his phone to show her the picture of phone numbers.

“Did it ever occur to you that those might just be his, you know, friends?”

“Stan doesn't have friends.”

“We’re his friends.”

Dipper shut the book with a hard thud.

“Mabel, look, he’s definitely hiding something. Why does he come home so late at night? Why is he so in denial about that mark on his back? Why won’t he talk about Dad at all? I’m sure I can figure out the answers this summer. And if Stan can’t help we still have the Journal.”

“You must have read that thing like a million times!”

“Of course, I have. But this is the first time we’re in New York. Look at this map, I’m certain its of downtown Manhattan and there’s dots everywhere. I’m going to go to all the places Dad marked and see if I can find clues to his whereabouts. And maybe some Monsters along the way.”

“All right. Fine. Go find Dad. But can you do it tomorrow? I’m trying to sleep.”

She threw herself down on the bed, turning over to face the wall. It took only a minute of silence for her to turn back around, to see her fully clothed her brother was still seated on his made bed.

“I can’t sleep.” Dippers voice quavered, suddenly low and serious.

“Oh no, is it happening again?”

He nodded, scratching at his leg. “I don’t know where we can go . . .”

Mabel was already pulling her nightshirt off, grabbing a sweater and skirt from the laundry pile.

“Don’t worry, bro-bro, I’ll take care of you!” She bent at the windowsill, pulling a clip from her pocket and inserting it into the keyhole, before pushing the glass outwards.

“I thought Stan locked the window?”

“He did,” she grinned, clipping the pin into her hair. “Ladies first.”

* * * * *

“What are you doing here, you little turd?” Stan’s blood pressure rose just from the sight of the pale blue suited child sitting in front of Durland’s desk.

“Why the usual business, Stanley!” Gideon laughed gaily.

“We don’t need your help.”

“Stop harassing the informants,” Durland chastised.

“I’m not gonna harass all informants, just him. If his Daddy gives him so much info, why doens’t Bud Gleeful just come in himself.”

“My father is a very busy man,” Gideon said, “and despite his social circle, his dedication to law enforcement is as careless as most mages.”

“And we are so glad you take the time to give us all the information you can, Gideon,” Durland said, writing another line on his yellow legal pad.

“Look I hate to break up this love party, but I need a warrant for Blendin’s case. For the owner of McGucket’s Menagerie.”

“Ooh,” Gideon cooed, “you’re in acquaintance with the good Doctor?”

“What do you know about it, twerp?”

“Fiddleford’s a friend of my father’s. I have a couple thingamajigs in my old toy chest made by him.”

“Well, pet shop owner or toy maker or suspected criminal, he’s under investigation.”

“That’s actually not official,” Durland corrected.

“It will be once you let me have the search warrant form.”

“This is only cause I want you out of my office as soon as possible.” Durland spun his chair to pull the paperwork from the filing cabinet behind him. He spun back to his desk, uncapping a fresh pen to fill in his official information and Deputy signature. He held the form out, before jerking it back out of Stan’s grasp. “On second thought, maybe I’m not so inclined to give it to you.”

Stan growled.

“Oh, Deputy, do be nice to poor Stanley. I’m sure Doctor McGucket will be more than amenable. It’s better to indulge this man’s curiosity is it not?”

“Paper isn’t cheap.”

“Then I won’t waste your time,” Stan snatched the paper and stomped out of the office. He could hear that Gleeful kid’s giggles from down the hallway, like nails on a chalkboard.

* * * * *

Alarms went off in his brain as soon as he entered the shop. This time no plants obscured the room, as the line from door to center was utterly decimated. Dirt spilled from shattered pots, spiraling out in galaxies against the wood grain. A path of broken leaves and crushed flowers led straight to the open door of what Stan remembered was McGucket’s office. Whoever or whatever had come intending to cause damage, a show from the very beginning.

Stan followed the destruction cautiously. Under his shirt the scar on his shoulder glowed. The bamboo curtain had been sliced down, Stan swept the branches away with his foot as approached the closed door. There were voices and sounds, muffled by the thick wood. He twisted the knob as slowly as he could, inching the door open.

The visitor was a hulking thing, black suit barely containing his thick body. He had McGucket pressed to the desk, one hand braced against the man’s small chest, the other clutching around his windpipe. McGucket’s eyes were rolled back in his head as his body convulsed, struggling for the little breath the man’s grip barely allowed for.

“Give him back to me!” the man yelled. The shopkeeper was lifted, for a second his body swayed like a rag doll, until the man slammed him back onto the desk. A sudden crack heralded skull hitting wood. McGucket choked out a scream.

Stan saw red.

McGucket lay on the floor, heaving for breath as the fight raged above him. Stan plunged in with a left hook, easily deflected. He dodged an attempted gut punch from the other man, side stepping to lure the man away from McGucket’s prone body. Stan lunged, aiming to tackle, but his opponent caught him around the forearms. The two rolled, knocking into a lamp and tearing at the curtain as feet caught and pulled the fragile fabric. But Stan’s adversary had advantage in pure size and it was not long before he had the officer in a chokehold. The man grinned victoriously, delighting in the sheen of exertion on Stan’s face.

“I do quite like a little fight. Get’s the blood pumpin’. But you’re just a puppy, arent’cha?”

Stan snarled and suddenly, with a flash of light, his opponent was thrown to ground. Stan’s fists glowed, knuckles wrapped in sparking golden wires.

“No-“ McGucket moaned.

“McGucket, hey, are you all right?” Stan moved to hover above the shopkeeper, all wide-eyed concern, the magic around his hands fading.

“NO-“ His desperate words meant nothing for Stan had already fallen to his knees, one hand clutched where deep gashes slit his stomach. The other man staggered to standing, grinning as the now extended claws dripped with fresh blood.

“Now where were we?”

McGucket had not meant for it to go this far. Last resorts were called for.

“MELODY!” he yelled.

White dust swirled through the room, obscuring Stan’s vision. A familiar girl emerged from thin air, suspended in the center of the room. Her haired flared around her, as if she floated underwater, such ethereality at odds with the normal shop girl Stan had met before. The pain at his side began to numb, but the chill invaded all his bones, as if he were drowning in freezing water.

She opened her mouth and began to sing.

Two burning blades stabbed into Stan’s temples, impaling his brain. His screams died on his lips as he was plunged into unconsciousness.

 

He awoke in a strange bed; the usual bite of his worn mattress springs absent. Now he felt as if he were floating on a cloud. He nuzzled into the silk, cheek sliding to smooth sheets. They smelled of lavender soap. But his own body hampered the comfort of the bed; all his limbs felt inordinately heavy and his head still pounded. Ugh. Stan blinked lazily, turning to stare at the unrecognizable ceiling.

A bespectacled face swept into view.

“Oh, oh, he’s awake!” McGucket exclaimed.

“I can see that,” came a disembodied chuckle.

A wash of fear swept over him, pain in his head flaring. He gasped.

McGucket clucked disapprovingly. “Oh, it doesn’t look like he’s quite recovered enough yet. Do you mind? Yes, just set it down there, thank you, dear.”

“Sure thing, boss.” There was a clacking and then sounds of a door shutting. Stan could hear his own breathing in the new silence of the room, ragged and deep. And then there was McGucket, whose gentle breaths ghosted across his tired face. The shopkeeper’s lips were parted, shining ever so slightly. He idly wondered how smooth they would feel, a man’s lips shouldn’t look that soft. His face was similarly clear, although age lines ran along his eyes and mouth, a reminder that the small man had experience. The shopkeeper emanated an air of quaint strength, and Stan felt boorish in comparison. Every movement McGucket made felt deliberate, from the teasing caresses of his breath to the hand now placed on Stan’s head. He felt he should say something, do something, defend his honor and throw the hand off. But it was soothing to have his forehead rubbed. Calloused fingertips scraped at his skin, but the touch was tender. Stan had a flash of memory, of the same slender fingers scrabbling at strong arms that had pinned their owner.

“How are you feeling?” Stan asked.

McGucket’s brows knitted in confusion. Stan raised a hand to his own neck, miming a grab.

“Ah.” Then the hand was gone, and Stan traitorously felt his head lift off the bed chasing the source of comfort. He covered the moment of weakness by propping his upper body against the headboard. McGucket’s hands were clutched defensively in his own lap, watching Stan from under lidded eyes.

“So?” Stan prodded, once he was upright. “How’re you doin’ Doc?”

“I’m fine, thank you for your concern.”

“Good.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“Can’t a guy care about the well-being of his best suspect?”

McGucket snorted. “You don’t even know me.”

“But I’m gonna get to real soon. Got the warrant in my back pocket.”

“Oh, you mean this?” And McGucket was leaning across him, Stan’s naked chest pressed flush against McGucket's clothed one. For a few seconds, he felt a heartbeat and then skin of a cheek graze his jawline. He shuddered at the contact, but McGucket thankfully did not seem to feel his inopportune reaction, as he was too busy reaching around to slip the piece of paper out of Stan’s pocket. The warmth was lifted from Stan’s chest as the shopkeeper waved the warrant in his face teasingly, before adjusting his glasses to examine the document.

“Hmmm, a simple search of the premises. I suppose I can allow for this."

"I doesn't matter if you want to allow it or not. I’m gonna turn over this place from top to bottom. Whatever your shopgirl is, that monster guy wanting to hurt you for some reason. Cards are stackin’ up against you, Doc.”

“Melody is a banshee-siren cross breed. Very rare and quite a delight to have found. She works as a security system for me, as well as helping with the animals. I’ve trained myself to not be affected by her voice, but I am awfully sorry you had to take the fall.”

“You’re makin’ it worse.”

“The man was simply a customer from my shop. He breached a contract and was not pleased with the consequences. I do deal with the supernatural, this much I cannot hide. Yet, I assure you all my intentions are good. He was an evil man, who only wished for his son back. I gave him that hope, a chance for redemption. He mistreated his new pet as much as he mistreated his actual son.”

“Jeez, what was he doing? Beatin’ it up?”

“Something like that.”

“Guys like that deserve what’s comin’ to them.”

“You have a developed sense of morality, Mr. Detective. Are you a family man?” McGucket raised an inquisitive brow.

“Not really. Taken care of my niece and nephew for the summer.”

“I bet you make a wonderful father figure.”

Stan could feel the blush seeping into his cheeks, hoping it was not a visible as it felt.

“What about you?” he diverted.

“I . . . my wife and I have a son.”

Stan waited for elaboration, but McGucket did not want to continue the line of personal exposition. Instead he reached for the teapot that sat on a carted tray at Stan’s knee, pouring a full cup, before holding it to Stan’s lips.

“You should drink this before it gets cold.”

Stan gingerly accepted the cup, tipping back gently, before sputtering.

“How much sugar did you put in there?!”

“You don’t like it? I quite fancy a little sugar.”

“A little? Doc, you got a whole bag in there. Take it back.”

McGucket snatched the cup from Stan’s hands, sourly sipping at the tea, glaring over the rim at the bed-ridden officer. Several minutes of this tension and Stan felt the gnawing of guilt in his gut.

“Aww, I’m sorry.”

“As you should be,” McGucket huffed, but his face softened. He finished the tea, setting it upon the tray. “You know I’m surprised you did not do a poison check before trying the tea. Considering you believe me to be a supernatural criminal. And you haven’t had such a good track record for bodily harm at my shop.”

Fuck, he was right. He had been offered food by a suspect and taken it without question, a dangerous break in procedure. Other men had died over such mistakes. But McGucket had looked so earnest for him to drink . . .

“I guess I’m still not in my right head. Must be the injuries.”

“Oh, of course, that must be it,” McGucket conceded, “You’ll be pleased to know that your side has healed within the past two hours you’ve been asleep. Although, I can’t say as much for your clothes, they couldn't be saved.”

Stan pulled the blanket away to peer at his side, surprised to find the skin was closed and untarnished.

“Phoenix tears,” McGucket explained, “Very fast acting. This business has many benefits.” And then Stan felt a hand placed on his own. “But don't go all exertin' yourself now. Rest. You can leave whenever you’re ready, but I’ll sit with you until then.”

Stan squirmed under the spotlight of those blue eyes. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, I’m already takin’ up this bed and everything. What’s this doing in a pet shop anyways?”

“I work late nights,” McGucket said vaguely, “But it’s honestly no trouble if you’d like the company. In fact, it would be my pleasure, Stanley.”

 

It was only as he trudged home an hour later, shivering slightly without a shirt, that he realized he had never told McGucket his name.


	4. Up The Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FLASHBACK: How Wendy Met Stan.

**2001**

It was the whimpering that attracted his attention. The high-pitched sounds caught his ears despite the heavy downpour of rain. Perhaps it was his affinity for wounded things, radar to seek out those just like him. The dog was curled under a cardboard box, fur matted, darkened with water, but Stan suspected it must have once been a light brown or red. He knelt and offered the front of his hand, but creature did not move and Stan realized with horror there was no breath coming out the black nose. With both hands he palmed the creature; it’s lifeless body pliable to his touch. There was no collar on the thin and immobile neck.

The rain was relentless, the street a veritable river sliding and rolling around him. The legs of his pants were getting wet from where he knelt, the thrift store raincoat was serviceable, but it still only kept his upper half dry. Still he felt the sticky wetness in his hands. He pulled away to see a red stain, before it dripped off in rain-saturated rivulets between his scarred knuckles.

Then he spotted it, the source of the whimpering. A shape shifted in the shadows of the box. Out emerged a pup that had been curled behind the older dog. It crawled toward the warmth of Stan’s hand, small head raised to sniff at his palm. It whined, looking up at him with questioning emerald eyes. Stan reached to scratch behind its ears and it flinched before assenting to his touch, head falling onto its paws mournfully.

 

Across the street, a man walked with a small triangle on his shoulder, invisible to all but him. The triangle pointed with black fingers towards where Stan hunched over the box.

“HEY, ICARUS, GET A LOAD OF THAT.”

“I don’t appreciate that nickname.”

“I CALLS ‘EM LIKE I SEE ‘EM.” The triangle laughed. Nearby a rhododendron bush lost all its blossoms. “BUT SERIOUSLY. DO MINE EYES, OH EXCUSE ME, EYE DECEIVE ME? IS THAT STANLEY?”

“Don’t distract me,” the man said, turning a corner. “I don’t have time to waste on him.”

“AW TOO BAD,” the triangle said. “I THOUGHT WE WERE GONNA HAVE SOME FUN. BUT IM A PATIENT GUY. I CAN WAIT.”

 

His arms full of sopping, squirming animal, Stan was making a valiant effort to dig out his key while not dropping the pup onto the floor.

“Looks like you’re strugglin’ there, dude.”

“Oh thank god. Soos! I found this dog on the street. Help me get it inside.”

“No offense, Mr. Pines, but that’s a wolf.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, kid. There’re no wolves in the City.”

“Nahhhh, I’m still pretty sure that’s a wolf. It’s got those big feet, and slanty eyes and such big teeth-”

“If there is a universe where I care about the difference between dogs and wolves, it is not this one.”

“Heheh, good one.” Soos unclipped the monstrous ring of keys from his belt. Big brass, silver with orange cap, RiteAid card, NORT logo keychain, endless small brass, the key to Stan’s house was quick to find with the bright Smiley Face cap he’d bought two years ago. He held the door as Stan staggered in towards the bathroom where he pulled a towel into the bottom of the bathtub before lowering the small wolf on top. Soos hovered in the doorway, tilting his head in an effort to get a view past Stan’s large shoulders. Stan stroked the wolf’s fur one last time, before moving to rinse his hands in the sink.

“All right, I’m going to go check out where the closest vet is. See if they do night calls.”

“You don’t want me to look it up on my phone?”

“I don’t trust those machines and I don’t need the Internet. Any info I need I can get from my phonebook in half the time.”

The phonebook was stacked under the sink, Stan could feel his knees crick as he bent, but he barely had a hand past the pipes before Soos’ tentative voice carried from the other room.

“Uhhhhhhh, Mr. Pines? Gonna need a little help in here.”

“Can’t you do anything without me holding your hand-holy shit.”

The girl was around four years old, curled up in the bathtub, her bright red hair still vibrant against the white tile. She had no clothes.

“Soos, go make us some soup. Stock’s above the microwave.”

Stan tucked the edges of the towel around her shoulders, before sitting to hang his elbows over the edge of the bathtub. He watched the girl’s shallow breathing soften. She pulled the towel closer around her. Long lashes eventually fluttered open.

“How you doin’?”

The girl slowly sat up. She appraised Stan for a few minutes before opening her mouth wide, her brows furrowing as if in effort. He saw her chin tremble, but all that came out was a feeble groan before she shut her mouth again. She seemed surprised at her inability to vocalize, face writ with confusion.

“Not much of a chatterbox I guess. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you talk. Hell, I can talk enough for the both of us. You like soup? Bet you do.”

 

On the rainy night Stan brought her to the orphanage, the old church’s steeple disappeared into the fog. Lights from top rooms appeared sourceless and formless, hanging like ineffable guardians over the building.

The Kelly House was not a typical orphanage. Although they received governmental funding on the down low, New York City had little to no interest in the operational procedures. As with the Supernaturalists and the NYPD, it was expected that only the supernatural could and should police themselves; thus, official regulations of the facility were near non-existent. And while this left the supernatural orphan system open to obvious corruption, it was a fact that the New York City government did not care about the well being of dangerous children as long as they were kept off the streets. And Stan would not have trusted a soul connected to the orphanage, if one of the current owners had not been his Superintendent for the first five years he had lived in the Bronx.

Junko and Daisuke “Dice” Kelly were the faces of immigration, their Japanese and Irish ancestry merging into a pair of healthy bodies and strong minds. A kitsune and a dullahan of repute, the twins brokered in illicit gambling, supernatural messenger systems and illegal documentation to bring in more money than the state would provide. Some went to caring for the children, the rest to furnish their lavish house and personal expensive luxuries, Junko drunk sake like a fish, Dice kept his wardrobe impeccably tailored. And what remained was given to those less fortunate, not out of the goodness of their hearts, but the shrewd purchasing of future favours. It did well to maintain the good graces of the many denizens of the supernatural underground. Low level crooks they might be, but who among the supernatural wasn’t? At least they would put food in her mouth and keep her occupied and moderately safe. Stan did not trust himself with children. There was no room for them in his quest. So the girl went to the Kelly House.

After the first week she could speak again.

“I’m Wendy.”

“And I’m Stan!” He grinned and she shyly returned it.

After the first month, she was walking about on her own. She was waiting at the window when he came for his weekly visit. He stuck his tongue out at her. She giggled.

He brought her treats most days he came. At first his pocket was lined with different candy, in his mind that was what children liked. Then, he learned she was giving the candy to the other children in return for cool bugs or silly putty or scary stories. So, he brought her weirder objects, his heart warming at the wonder on her face with each small present: barnacles from the Hudson, a watermelon as big as her head, a life guard’s whistle, and once the tooth of a small wyvern. The next time he arrived she had it strung around her neck on a string.

After the first year she was fearless, jumping in between his legs, running through the house as he chased her. He would catch her around the waist, yelling in triumph as he tickled her into submission. They would sit on the stoop with ice creams straight from the truck and she would proclaim: “You only caught me because I wanted you to.” Junko would tell him to watch out for the furniture next time and not to drip sugar on the carpet when she came in.

After the second year, she started school. Stan brought her pencils for her birthday. Of course, Wendy did not go to public kindergarten; she had no paperwork. For all the government knew she did not exist. Still, at nine o’clock the large dining room table was spread with papers, crayons, workbooks, and seated children of varying age, size, color, and wingspan. A beleaguered Dice stood at the head, scribbling along a chalkboard. There was a constant wash of noise as children shouted out answers towards the one adult teacher, while young-old pairs taught and practiced simpler concepts together.

“I gotta go to work now,” he bent on one knee, looking into her worried eyes. Wendy chewed at her lip, squeezing the pencils in her hand. “But I got something else for you.”

He pulled a deck of cards from his pocket, flipping through until he found what he was looking for, pressing the card into her hand.

“Ace?”

“That’s what you’re gonna be. Enjoy school. Don’t bite anyone. See you next week, kid.”

 

The woman’s nine foxtails waved like an anemone, children’s multicolored heads poking out like tropical fish. Even more tugged at the long ends of her straight black hair and she balanced a toddler in her arms.

“Now is not a good time, I’m afraid.”

“With all these brats nothing’s ever a good time for you, Junko. C’mon, I just wanna see her for an hour.”

“No, I don’t think you can.”

“What’da mean? Look this is the only time I can come, if she’s doing school or something can’t she take a break?“

“WENDY’S SICK!” a stocky, pink-shirted child yelled from behind Junko’s leg. “She needs more than a bandaid,” another, roundfaced and bespectacled, whispered loudly. Junko’s face blanched at the same time as comprehension dawned on Stan’s. And suddenly she was shoved to the side as he barreled in the house. She ran after him, but even with her tails vanished she was weighted down by the children attached to her human limbs. He knew he could easily beat her to the bedroom Wendy shared with five other children.

He threw open the door. “Hey, don’t worry, cause Stan’s here-“ his voice faltered as the two men hovered over the bed turned to stare at him, faces grave. One held the exact same Asian face as Junko with short hair and thicker brows: Dice. The other was a tall black man grasping a stethoscope in his hand, a man Stan had only ever seen while he was on the verge of death.

“Why is he here?” Stan accused, pointing a shaking finger at the doctor. “W-what’s wrong?”

The two men exchanged glances in transparent negative appraisal of Stan’s stability at this moment. He took the pause to push them away from the bed. Permission be damned. Wendy lay on her back, her green shirt in shreds beneath her. Her undeveloped child’s chest was cross-hatched with raw scratches. Along her shoulder an arc of teeth marks, the creature had been all canines. The type of mouth used for fighting.

“What happened?”

“She accidentally started a quarrel with a new arrival.“

“What was she fighting with, a dragon? These kids are your responsibility, how could you let this happen?!”

Dice’s eyes flashed in fury. “My responsibility! Do you know how hard it is to take care of thirty inhuman kids between two people? No you wouldn’t, because you can’t even bother to take the responsibility for one. You come here every week for the past four years. And we thought: why doesn’t he take her home? You KNOW I could get you the paperwork in a week and she’d be Wendy Pines. But, nooooo, that would be too much for you.”

Stan growled. “You know I can’t care for a kid with my job.”

“I’m aware of what your JOB is,” Dice sniped with venomous tongue, “Some of the orphans here know quite INTIMATELY what the Supernaturalists do.” Each syllable was enunciated crisp and clear, meaning to jab Stan in the chest.

“This looks worse then it is. She’ll be fine in a week or two,” the doctor said, his words attempting to mask the tension in the room.

“Once she’s better we’ve got someone interested in her,” Dice continued, “A wolfman named Dan Courderoy. Sweeter than a peach. And unlike some people, living with him will not be a hazard to her well being.”

Stan punched him square in the face. On immediate contact Dice's precariously attached head snapped backwards, the dark green ribbon around his throat unravelling as the Horseman's head hung by a thread of skin. Dark smoke issued from the neck's stump, obscuring any sign of carnage. And with a full body jerk and two ready hands, Dice shifted his head back into place, glare still evident as he rewound the ribbon tight against his tan throat.

“Stan. I think you should leave.” Junko was at his back, sharp nails scraping along his neck as her hand touched his shoulder. Her eyes narrowed and pupils grew inhumanly slitted. “My brother's hypocrisy aside, I don't tolerate such behavior. This is a house of nurturing,” she added, her tone a low threatening reminder.

He slunk out of the house and did not return.

The day Just Wendy became Wendy Courderoy, a letter arrived at his apartment. It was a photo of the eight-year-old girl, smiling nervously underneath the arm of a large, lumberjack of a man. Only two lines were scribbled on the back of the photo. Come for ramen anytime – Junko. She’s very happy – Dice.

 

The tap on his window came at 2am. Stan groaned and rolled over, pressing the pillow against his ear. The tapping became more insistent. He growled in frustration, before sitting up and seeing the familiar green eyes staring back from behind the glass. She scooted back against the fire escape as he hastily unfastened the window, allowing her to scramble through.

“Guess it’s been a while,” he mumbled into her shoulder as she hugged him. “How’s your new Dad?”

“Dad is great,” she said, and Stan did not know why he suddenly felt so sad.

“I bet he is. I got a look at him, real big and strong guy. It’ll be good for you, teach you all the wolf things I couldn’t, right?”

“Only the normal stuff. Control the fur, make your teeth small, share the TV with your brothers, no badmouthing BABBA, go to real school . . . it's a lot of rules.”

“Well you know what, no rules as long as you’re in Stan Pines house. Except one,” his eye twinkled. “There’s only one food we eat past midnight here.”

She grinned, full and wide. “Ice cream?”

“You got it. Bet I can eat more than you.”

“Cannot!”

 

She was a teenager now, grown tall with unsuspected compact strength, like a young tree. Still it was always 2am when she came to Stan. Tonight, she sat with her back against his door as he staggered into the hallway, a game of solitaire splayed out on the mustard yellow carpet. She flipped the Ace card up at him.

“You’re late,” she said.

“We’re not some suburban moms at a brunch, Wendy.”

“I was just about to get worried.”

“Eh, don’t be. I’m just tired. But, word of advice, do not piss off gorgons.”

“Well, there goes my plan to visit the gorgons later tonight. Those girls know how to party.”

“What? ” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “I don’t want you hanging anywhere near those devil women! Sure they seem nice, but first you’re painting your nails and next thing you know I’m gonna have to slice snakeheads so they don’t scalp you for your hair!” And she was suddenly aware of how he stood so all his weight was on one leg, the other loose and limp. His frantic breathing burnt her neck.

“It was a joke!”

“Hmph.” He dropped his hands, averting his eyes, sinking back in on himself. She rubbed at the sore skin, underneath the plaid shirt. “Point still stands. You should hang out with normal kids your age. Less dangerous.”

“That why you let me sneak in at night to hang out with you?”

“This . . . this is different.”

He looked miserable, eyes red rimmed and nose dripping after his sudden outburst. Perhaps she should let him sleep, but it concerned her to think of him all alone in this state.

“ . . . sooooooo, you wanna go watch TV? It’ll be a few hours until I’m supposed to wake up at home.”

“As a random person in your life and not your father, I completely condone this.”

“Just say friend, Stan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the OCs weren't too bothersome! I wanted racial diversity and also I couldn't figure canon characters (who i hadn't already plotted out for other things) to fit these roles.


	5. Family Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. McGucket and Mrs. Gleeful have more in common than they think, Bud and Thompson have a mission, Stan visits an old friend, and Fiddleford takes pride in his work. Also, a kiss.

**PRESENT - JUNE 2012**

The table was laid for two. Forks and knives were lined up in perfect parallels, framing white china piled with chicken, vegetables and rice. Fiddleford came in just as she placed the peach cobbler in the oven.

“He took his plate to his room,” she explained, as he pulled a wooden chair out from the table. Like clockwork, every day at eight she placed a home-cooked meal out for husband, and predictably most days she’d end up scooping the cold food into tupperware in disgust. Fiddleford would stumble home at three am, and shove the leftovers into the microwave. She had once entertained the idea of not cooking, of letting him face the reality of self-preservation, but she could not bring herself to be so needlessly cruel. She wanted to take care of him. If she could not be the lover he wanted, she could at least be the ideal wife. He was still so skinny already and it set a flutter in her heart to see his contentment after eating, as he rolled into their bed in the early morning, thinking she was asleep. He never mentioned the notes she left. I made your favorite – Love, Rosie. Some garlic for vampires - Love, Rosie. I heard blueberries improve memory – Love Rosie. At least now with Tate there was one McGucket man to appreciate her efforts, even if it was with only a perfunctory “Thanks, Mom.”

She thought she would be less lonely with their son home. Tate barely talked. She once asked him if he hated her like she knew he hated his father.

“Why do you care? It makes you too sad,” he had said before turning the TV on to an animal documentary. They had sat side by side in silence and he never acknowledged the tears she’d wiped from her eyes. On screen a fish ate another fish. The documentary ended and Tate had stood, peering at the clock.

“He should be home soon. I guess you’re going to start on dinner.” And he disappeared into his room, leaving her to her longing. The family photos on the wall stared at her mockingly. In one, she was the pure picture of blushing bride, the bump under her dress only visible to those who knew to look for it. Fiddleford was crisp in his tuxedo, beaming as he spun her, his face carefree. Then another, Tate on Fiddleford’s shoulders, giggling as small fists grasped at his father’s hair. Fiddleford howled in fake pain his eyes betraying his barely contained mirth. She remembered herself behind the camera, almost too beside herself with laughter to take the photo. Would it have it been better for those happy moments never to have happened, she wondered. Perhaps then the present would be easier to bear.

She lived for the rare days Fiddleford joined her for dinner. He was still the man she loved, after all.

“How was your day?” she asked, sliding the brandy across the table.

“Interesting. A customer got a bit handsy. Usual threats to my body and such, no real danger.”

“Again? I worry about you.”

“I’ve told you not to worry yourself, darlin'. I can take care of myself. But would you believe I did have an unexpected knight in shining armor today. Stanley Pines! Boy has he got personality. I’m surprised, but I think I do like him.” He brandished his fork at her, and she saw the lines in his face curve up as they always did when he got excited. She had not seen that face for months.

“That’s what you said about the last one. But I hope this model will bring you less trouble.”

“Don’t talk about the Pines like they’re robots, dear.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re certainly as enamored with them as you are of your machines.”

"Rosie . . .” he pleaded.

She stared at her plate, focused on the grain of the meat. The knife jerked in her hand as metal hit bone.

“You shouldn’t be so rough,” he advised, placing a piece of chicken in his mouth before reaching across the table. “Here let me-“

“I know how to cut chicken. Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not trying to patronize you.”

She threw his hand, only to slam the knife down.

“I’ve been seeing someone.”

“A new one? How is he?” He relaxed back into his seat.

“Great body. Not much of a brain.”

“Well, I’m glad I have nothing to worry about then.” He laughed, but it was forced and they both knew it. He scooped rice onto his fork.

“Would you have been worried if I said he was a genius physicist?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, patting at stray grains at his mouth. “I know I don't offer you much, but we chose each other and you know I’d work extra hard to win you back. Speaking of which I have something to show you after dinner.”

Fiddleford could pass as a doting husband in some respects. He brought her animals, fish with iridescent scales, birds with flaming plumage that sang captivating songs. For Tate he had dogs with shining hides and rivets for eyes. He knelt at her feet, extending such gifts for her approval, babbling upon their genetic makeup or sometimes the specific metals he used to facilitate their locomotion.

And if he was lucky she gave him the praise he wanted. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” she said once and his eyes lit up like a child on Christmas. He had kissed her then. Quick and delirious, like a teenager. When he looked at her with such sparkling eyes she could pretend that he loved her the way she wanted him to. But even then he refused to take her to bed, there had been no sex since Tate’s conception. They made a mistake then. She never thought he would offer to marry her, never suspected the man of her dreams would be her husband. They were still the best of the friends. They moved to New York and he set up the Pet Shop. He met Stanford Pines. He met Preston Northwest. He met so many people and creatures, stepping into the world she knew only through his stories. The people he met dragged lines onto his face with their claws, the creatures’ auras darkening his eyes. He spun farther and farther out of reach.

She leaned against the counter, the dishwasher whirring as Fiddleford spread his supplies across the living room floor. He held up a screwdriver and smiled at her. She did not smile back. He had brought his latest project from his workroom. Jagged wires extended outward, unknown status lights blinking ominously. It had far too many limbs. She could still see the gears turn when he placed a hand on the surface, a small spell activating the machine.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s unfinished.”

“Well, yes, it is . . . but it will be magnificent once I’m done!”

“The proof is in the pudding, sweetheart.”

“You’re right. I’ll make it better. I’ll make it the best . . .” he said, turning to stare back into the belly of the beast in his lap. She could almost see the revised blueprints flashing in front of his eyes.

The oven beeped. She pulled the cobbler out.

“Dessert!” she called. Tate’s shaggy head emerged like a bear from its den, retrieving a plate of ice cream topped pastry before plopping down on the sofa. He reached for the remote. There was a movie on: a man’s face shrouded in shadow threatened someone of screen. Then gunshots. Now a couple passionately kissing. An instrumental theme song. Fiddleford frowned.

“Would you mind switching that off, sugar?” she said, “Your father’s trying to concentrate.”

The plate was thrown to the floor, splitting instantly. Tate was gone, the slamming of the door reverberating through the apartment. And Rosie McGucket was saddened to find she was not surprised by this turn of events. Her husband, on the other hand, was visibly shaken.

“I’ll . . . I’ll clear it up,” Fiddleford said, weakly.

“Don’t bother. You stick to your work.” She placed his plate of dessert next to his knee, before bending down to sit beside him. Eventually he relaxed, absorbed in his task he murmured to himself in indistinguishable jargon. She leaned against his shoulder, eyes drooping, listening to the soft hums and murmurs he emitted. Small comforts.

The two spent the night surrounded by wires and scrap metal, broken china and dribbling cobbler that stained the carpet. It felt fitting.

* * * * *

In another living room far more than just plates were shattering.

“Just keep sweeping, Dolores, just keep sweeping . . .”

The unplugged television sparked, and a decorative mirror glowed blue, before it was vaulted across the room. The porcelain roses’ of its frame hit the wall, falling into the purple carpet, beckoning the prematurely grey haired woman to hurry to clear it, broom held in shaking hands. It had been her father's, the only thing he’d given her before he died. Now it was dust. Sweep, sweep, sweep.

“Tell me!” the boy jumped on the sofa, an accusatory finger hitting his father in the chest.

“Honestly, son! Nothing is going on.”

“Lies! What does Stanley Pines want with Fiddleford McGucket?”

“Perhaps its just for one of his cases.”

“I don’t believe you! You know something. I won’t let you keep secrets from me old man.” He leaned in close, the white pompadour casting a shadow over his face, one pudgy hand clutched at the turquoise pendant around his neck.

“Sweetums, you’re just being paranoid-“

“There are dangers in this world you could not even conceive, Father!” and then he smiled stretching his face like an obscene doll, cheeks reddening, “Why I’m just trying to protect the Gleeful name.”

“O-of course.”

The boy frowned, hopping off the sofa. “Ignorant, insufferable parents . . .” he muttered. “I will be in my room. You may bring dinner to the door.” A windowpane shattered as he left.

Dolores Gleeful cowered in the corner, her bulging eyes staring at the glass on the floor. Her husband approached cautiously, but she shrank even further against the wall as his shadow fell on her. He opened the briefcase in his hand, pulling out a spherical canister and a golden gun. Her frantic fear was as habitual as his resignation. The gun touched her temple and she crumpled to the floor.

 

The Journal under his coat bit into his side as he climbed up onto the stool. Next to the small diorama set across the top of the desk, the hamster in its cage shuffled through the shredded paper. Gideon pushed the small, wooden buildings to the side, laying the Journal in their place, where it easily fell open to the well-thumbed page. There was the image of Stanley Pines, rendered in loving graphite. No writing or codes peppered the sides of the portrait. He was younger, hair slicked back, and fading pockmarks on his chin. He was beaming at the artist, obviously enjoying being the model. The doe eyes and hooked nose were unmistakable. Gideon growled. What did it mean? What importance did Stanley Pines have to The Author?

He turned the pages: diagrams of spells, recipes for potions, anatomical drawings of griffins, kappas, ogres, wendigos, a fastidious catalogue of the supernatural.

And on the middlemost page was a scattering of lines, their order and meaning indecipherable to Gideon. He read over the text he had near memorized: _“We live in a world of anomalies, but this presumes there is such a state as normal. I believe our universe is just one of many and the supernatural are manifestations of these other dimensions. In this and my other two Journals I have outlined the instructions to a portal that I predict can lead us to these other dimensions, harnessing a quantity of magical power yet unknown on our Earth.”_

“But where are the other Journals!” Gideon said, frustration straining his plump face.

The hamster squeaked.

“Yes, Cheekums. Such a shame my father has lost the mage’s ambition to gain the ultimate magical power and rule over all the Supernatural!” He laughed maniacally, although the sound fell on deadened walls, the overdramatic display for no one but himself. Gideon scooped up a wooden doll, its body painted a bright pink, long brown hair carved into its bullet shaped body. “Her Uncle and Brother defeated, the Northwests under my control and when I make the portal, the entire world will be at my feet. Mabel Pines will have to be my Queen!” He hugged the doll to his chest, rocking back and forth on the high chair. A stray knee hit the desk. As he bemoaned the small pain, another doll, a girl with pale yellow hair, tumbled unseen into the darkness under the desk.

* * * * *

Thompson’s finger stayed, the gun trembling in his hands.

From where it circled above him, the ghost continued to scream. It was worse that it was a boy his own age, a boy who had died at the hands of the man Bud now had strapped to a chair with white magic bonds, concentrated especially around the man’s fists, keeping his claws from swiping through the restraints. The man was sobbing freely, straining through gnashing teeth in his struggle to free himself.

“McGucket sent you didn’t he! Well, I didn’t do anything this time! I didn’t kill him! I was just disciplining-and then it-it-it-”

“Just do it, son!” Bud said, and he should have yelled for Thompson could not hear him over the ghosts din. Its body was ghastly, ragged with the clawmarks. Translucent viscera hung down, hovering over their heads, whipping at their hoods.

“He. Must. Forget.” Thompson chanted, as much to himself as to the spirit above him.

“NO!” the boy screeched, swooping down straight into Thompson’s face. The gun clattered to the floor.

“Thompson!” Bud cried.

“I want him to know!” the boy hissed, “I want him to go to sleep every night having to see my body in his memory. I want him to see the blood and tears and fear and I want the guilt TO EAT HIM APART. HE DID THIS! HE DID THIS TO ME! TO HIS OWN SON! AND HE CANT ESCAPE IT! AND I WANT HIS MEMORY TO DRIVE HIM CRAZY! AND I WANT HIM TO ONE DAY TAKE THOSE CLAWS TO HIS OWN NECK AND I WANT TO SEE HIM CHOKE ON HIS OWN BLOOD-“

And suddenly the ghost was gone. Thompson fell to his knees. The man was similarly slumped, the magical bonds sizzling into nothingness. Bud stood above them, the memory gun in his hands.

“C’mon, buddy. We gotta get out before he wakes up.” Thompson said nothing, but he let himself be pulled by the wrist as they escaped the house.

 

“Why him?” Thompson asked as Bud placed the canister into the tube leading to the Hall of Memories. A light sweep of air and it was gone.

“We make people forget the supernatural. And horrors they do not want to remember,” was the reply, a monotone recital.

“But he shouldn’t get to forget that! What he did was awful!“

“It’s not our business to judge.”

“Is it because McGucket-”

“Thompson.” And Bud was kneeling in front of him, his face serious. “The ghost, there was a ghost wasn’t there?”

Thompson nodded, a sudden lump in his throat restricting any speech.

“And as soon as I used the gun the ghost disappeared?” Bud continued his questioning. Thompson nodded again. “So, the ghost has peace, because his father forgot his crime. Thanks to us everyone is happy! It’s better to forget. You’ll soon learn.” He raised the gun in his hand. “But, I hate to see you so upset,” he mused, eyeing the empty canisters on the wall, “Care to have a little taste of the medicine?”

“N-no! I would never!”

Bud’s face darkened in the shadow of his hood as he stood.

“Well, you did a good job today, despite your sea legs. Now run along home now. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep at school.”

As Thompson left the basement, he cast a nervous glance at the Guardian bent over his book. To his view, Ivan was only an emaciated man with unfortunate bodily art. But to Ivan, Thompson was more than an awkward teenage boy; on top of plain body he saw a collection of white sparks, like small incessant fireworks. His red eye spun, taking a covert measurement of the boy’s magical aura so he could add it in the book next to the name and location of Thompson’s target. Fiddleford would be over soon to collect the records.

* * * * *

_“You must be seeking companionship in this trying time. How about a cat? Does this one fit your taste?”_

_“Yeah, nice joke.” The man’s claws snapped in and out once._

_“No joke,” Fiddleford said, unperturbed. He sat upon the sofa and beckoned. “To everyone else he is a Maine Coone of excellent stock. C’mere boy.” The hazel haired cat crawled across his legs and he rubbed a hand against its downy stomach. It purred deeply. But to the other man, the angelic face of his own son smiled with affection where the boy was draped over Fiddleford’s lap like a young Ganymede._

_“He looks exactly like him,” the man said, as if in a trance._

_The boy/cat curled in to lick Fiddleford’s palm with delicate pink tongue. The man’s face was reverential as he squatted, extending his arms in offering. It stared at him with curiosity, before daintily climbing down to the floor and padding softly over. It rubbed against his chest and the man buried his face in the fur, inhaling deeply, before staring with glistening eyes over its’ shoulder._

_“You brought him back,” he choked. “Doctor McGucket, how can I ever repay you? My son is back . . .”_

_“In a way.”_

_The man gently pulled the creature away from his chest, cradling its face. “I’m going to take good care of you this time.”_

_“Of course you will,” Fiddleford said, “He comes with a three rule contract. One, no one else except your family is allowed to see him. Two, he must be housed in the same room as your deceased son. Three, under no circumstances, must you ever raise your hand against him.”_

_“Whatever you say, I’ll do all those things. Where do I sign? How much does he cost?”_

_“Your word is good enough. If you break the contract, we are simply at no liability to whatever may occur afterwards. As for price, after your unfortunate loss, I could not dream of charging you.”_

_“You’re a good man, McGucket,” the man said, easily scooping his new pet up into his arms, and exiting the shop._

_“We'll see.” The goat bleated and Fiddleford pat it on the head._

_Melody came in with the broom, her whole torso still wet from the latest kelpie feeding. Fiddleford made no comment on her disheveled state as he was handed a lint roller and began to cleanse his pants of the small cat hairs collected there._

_“You know it amazes me how nice they seem when they come in,” she commented, as she swept around him, “Who would think a guy like that would ever have killed his son.”_

_“For now, in his grief, I think he is truly remorseful. But, let’s see if he has learned anything in the long run. Would you like to place a bet? If nothing unfortunate happens within two months, I’ll double your pay. Although the odds would not be in your favor.”_

_“I don’t like those kind of games.”_

“Suit yourself, dear.” 

* * * * *

“You could have made an effort to be more agreeable,” she said as she slipped into the room. She could see the blue glow of his gaming system through his ears from where Tate lay in the dark, back facing the door. He grunted non-committedly, buttons clicking.

“It would have been nice,” she said, sitting down the edge of the bed, “to have some family time together. We don’t get that too often do we?”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Well, you’re off at college these days . . .

“Mom, really?”

“What? I’m just saying we should make the most of the little time we have.”

Tate sat up, the handheld console snapping shut forcefully, while he yanked on the bedside table lamp. In the yellow light that now filled he room, he held out his fingers in front of her face.

“How many times has he gotten home before 1am since this summer began?”

“Tate, that’s a very aggressive-“

“Seven.”

“You . . . counted?”

“Seven out of a month. Dad is too generous. Let’s all wait on our knees until he can give us a piece of his precious time.”

“Can’t you just be happy he’s here at all? He tries his best and you know he loves you.” She moved to hold his hands, but he turned away and her hands fell useless to the bed.

“Sure, he loves us. But that’s not an excuse.”

* * * * *

The beast roared, with eyes flashing and fangs bared. The faintest whirring emanated from its gaping maw. Gideon squealed in delight.

“You work faster than I expected! Why isn’t this a treasure! I do declare, if I didn’t know better I’d say we have true blue Chimera here.”

“I take pride in my craftsmanship,” Fiddleford said.

Gideon reached out to touch the edge of the monster’s lion nose. It snapped forward, stopping only as Fiddleford clapped his hands. Gideon turned suspiciously towards the Shopkeeper.

“It does know who it’s master is, doesn’t it?”

“You only have to mark it with your family seal and control will be transferred to the machine.”

“Excellent. I shall take it home right away.”

Fiddleford plucked the display cloth from the floor, folding it neatly and draping it over his own arm. Gideon was still only at his waist height, even as Fiddleford seated himself down, his showmanship over. He clicked his tongue and the beast crawled to Gideon’s side, bowing its head.

“The standard Cloaking Shield lasts three hours.”

“More than enough time, thank you kindly.” Gideon walked towards the door, the Chimera trailing at his heels. “And I shall see you tonight, good Doctor?”

“If Stanley Pines permits it. And I suspect he will.”

* * * * *

Stan swerved between the cop cars that barred off the street, the woman easy to spot in her bright pink dress. Her unprofessional attire was misleading. Stan knew that she could kick down demons in pumps; he’d seen that skirt stained with shining blood as she stood over a vanquished basilisk. If anything, her feminine demeanor helped her in her job a Supernaturalist, for the opponents familiar with gender stereotypes underestimated her threat. Carla beckoned once she spotted him, toothy smile as sparkling as he remembered.

“Oh thank god you’re here. I’ve been using all my power to maintain the Cloaking Shield, I haven’t even got a look at the body!”

A woman with a beehive hairdo glanced in their direction with curiosity, before her eyes glazed. She suddenly realized she ought to be home earlier than planned, her plants might need repotting. She rushed off down Broadway and Stan nodded in approval.

“Impressive. Why would you ever need me?”

“Don’t pull that!” she reprimanded, her tone lightened by the playful slap to his arm. He laughed good-naturedly; he was grateful he and Carla still got along well, despite the split in their police partnership four years ago. McCorckle and Pines had been an unstoppable team, bringing down crooks left and right. Until the fire. The papers wrote it off as a gas leak, but most everyone on the force knew that Stan Pines had been the cause.

_The Shifter sat on her back, one hand gripped at her nape, yanking her neck back so Stan could see her scared eyes behind the curtain of her fallen brown hair. The other hand held up a picture two young men. Stan recognized the photo he kept clipped inside his wallet. Ford was smiling humbly while holding a trophy, buckling under the weight of the proud arm wrapped around his shoulders. A younger, chubbier Stan was grinning wide with pride as he hugged his brother._

_“I like this form!” the Shifter declared, releasing Carla’s head to stroke a sixfingered hand across the sepia print._

_Stan stared back into recognizable eyes that now glinted with malice, eyes near identical to his own. Carla whimpered through the silver duct tape covering her mouth, her handcuffed hands hung uselessly behind her back. The Shifter bounced like an excited child, eliciting a cry of pain from the captive beneath him._

_“Tell me more about him. If I’m going to take on his life, I need to know everythinggggg,” the Shifter said. “Father was so secretive about his life.”_

_“He wasn’t your Dad.”_

_“YES HE WAS. He brought me into this world! I deserve his legacy, his life!” the Shifter snarled. “I’ll be a better Stanford Pines than he ever was.”_

_Stan threw himself at his brother’s form, rolling the familiar body weight to the floor until he was straddled over the Shifter’s body. His hands fisted in the yellow button down shirt, the same shirt Ford wore on the night Stan had lost his home and his family._

_“You’re. Not. My. Brother.”_

_“Stan-stan-stan, why are you doing this?“ the Shifter wailed, tears in its eyes. Suddenly it morphed into a smaller child, too large glasses and poofy brown hair, and he was faced with the frightened visage of a twelve year old Stanford Pines. In another time he would take this boy in his arms and hug the tears away, in another time he’d pull the boy up, say “You’re gonna be fine, nerd!” and they’d go out for ice pops on the boardwalk. Now he was an adult man, holding the body of a crying child in a violent grip._

_“Please don’t hurt me, you’re supposed to protect me-“_

_“YOU’RE NOT MY BROTHER!” Stan’s hand came down a firm slap to the face. The glasses flew off, shattering, and he dropped the Shifter the floor, where the small head lolled to the side. The handprint on the small cheek was unnaturally red, before beginning to smoke with the effect of the spell. And then the fire erupted around the edge of the mark, small licking flames that soon grew higher and broader, enveloping the body and spreading to the carpet._

_Stan scooped Carla’s body in his arms and fled the sounds of his brother’s screams._

Before regular firefighters could subdue it, the fire consumed the house in minutes, reaching to the park outside. The once verdant grove became a graveyard of burnt wood. The dryads had been upset at the loss of their home and the Precinct was designated with relocating them; Carla accepted one named Thistle to live in the bonsai on her windowsill and, as far as Stan knew now, he never left. Stan was placed on leave for a month for unnecessary destruction, use of fire spells were limited for a reason. He spent most of the free time curled up on his bed with the blinds drawn. And on his first week back at work Carla had come to him, her face forlorn, and said she could not work with him again.

Still, they respected each other to help in times of need. And so here he was, standing over a body. The man lay in the center of the pavement, a seller at the local farmer’s market, Stan guessed by the apron around his waist. The stalls surrounding them were still overflowing with produce; today’s sales shut down early by the attack. The farmer’s skull was collapsed where the horn had struck the deadly blow. The cow lay beside him, the knife the farmer had used in defense still sticking out from its neck. There was a surreal intimacy to the connection the attacker and victim now shared, pooled in the same mix of still red blood, both bodies frozen in the time of immediate death.

“It’s just like Blendin’s case,” Stan commented. “The time stop. The animal death.”

“Is this why you asked for any information I had on a Pet Shop owner?” Carla asked. “I thought you’d gone a little bit crazy. Crazier than usual that is.”

“Not originally,” Stan said, “but I’m even more suspicious now. There’s something not right about that guy. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Don’t get carried away like you always do.”

“I do not get carried away.”

Her eyes flicked to the duffle bag where they both knew the Journal was nestled. Stan put a hand against it protectively.

“Look, I hate that book, I’m not gonna say don’t use it. Hold the fort while I clear up.” He cowed to the order, removing the Journal and turning to the page on Cloaking Spells. So while Stan kept civilians at bay, under Carla’s hands, the time stop spell was drained, body searched and burnt upon finding no more evidence, and blood evaporated off the street. At the end it was if nothing had ever happened. Stan had to admire her dedication to thoroughness.

“Thanks for the help,” she said, stretching her arms out from the exertion of spell casting. “Want a ride home?” The engines of the cop cars roared around them.

“I think I got somewhere to be.”

“Well, I wish you luck in all your missions,” Carla said, “And here, I hope this dossier can help. Everything I could find on Fiddleford McGucket.”

“Yeah, I bet it will. You’re the best. And, uh, good luck to you too.”

* * * * *

The shop smelt faintly of lemon. The green walls of this newest room were painted with intricate arboreal patterns; lending an atmosphere both regal and wild. The floor was white stone, speckled with black. Sunlight fell from another skylight, hitting a spinning crystal in the center, that sent dancing spotlights around he room. It only served to make the recesses seem darker.

Fiddleford McGucket sat on a futon next to the crystal, a shining king in his realm. His glasses glinted like gems. One leg was crossed so the ankle lay on his knee. In his lap lay a large black dog, on his shoulder was a white plumed owl and, most surprisingly, wrapped around his right arm was a red diamond-backed snake. Fiddleford idly stroked the dog’s head while he held the reptile up so they were face to face. He appeared to be cooing, corners of his mouth curling up in affection as he talked to the animal. The snake swayed its head in response. A goat circled the couch, bleating lightly, and Stan thought he could eye a porcine nose under the shadow of Fiddleford’s leg.

He swallowed heavily, watching the Shopkeeper’s Adams Apple bob up and down the slender neck as he talked to the animals. The sight was hypnotizing. He was infringing upon something not of his world: a mortal in a god’s shrine.

“He’s not busy, Mr. Pines, you can go see him.” The desk girl was at his elbow. What was her name? Melanie?

“It’s Melody.”

Stan started. The girl averted her eyes, pursing her lips, her demeanor shifting to guarded. She retreated hastily to behind her desk, turning to fiddle with the cash register. “Just go say hi.”

He couldn’t back out now. So he walked slowly forward, each step feeling impossibly heavy. The paper handle of his present grew more and more crushed in his fist. By the time he reached the futon, McGucket had noticed him, looking up with amusement.

“My, what a pleasant surprise. Here to arrest me again, Mr. Detective?”

Stan shoved the box in his face.

“Excuse me,” Fiddleford said, and on cue the animals removed themselves from his personal space. Fiddleford grabbed the box from Stan’s hands, and eagerly peered inside. He was obviously pleased with what he saw, as he let out a girlish shriek.

“However did you know? Oh my, I’ve been meaning to try these eclairs for months! Melody, be a dear and fetch the plates and forks! Stanley is going to stay for afternoon tea.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Hey, look I never said I was staying long-“

A hand was placed on his shoulder. And suddenly Fiddleford’s face was six inches from his own. The other man was smaller than he, but for all his strength Stan felt trapped.

“No, I insist.”

 

 

The pig was nuzzling at his ankle and Stan flailed to avoid its inquisitive snout. Fiddleford had the nerve to giggle at the sight. Stan rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, as he once again slouched in the chair brought in especially for him. The pig crawled back under the couch. Fiddleford continued to happily eat away, the long, cylindrical pastry held between the tips of both hands. Dropping his jaw low to fit in as much of the sweet treat as he could at once and chewing with contented little moans. Eventually having consumed two whole éclairs in less then a minute, he proceeded to lick his fingers clean of their sweet cream. Even this action was done with a surreal determination, spread hand pressed to his face as a pink tongue emerged to cleanse in the grooves between fingers. So the Shopkeeper had at least one sin to his name: gluttony. Or perhaps it could be confused with lust, if Stan were honest. The man's actions were near obscene. 

Once finished, Fiddleford wiped his hand on the napkin before leaning back, looking satiated and calm.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some yourself?”

“N-no, I’m good.”

“Probably for the best. My wife is very concerned about my health. And yet she continues to make so many desserts. A sign of love I suppose.”

“Well, I have to stay fit for work . . .” Stan stared down at his stomach, self-conscious of how it bulged, despite his constant exercise.

“Ah, yes, your work. Am I correct in assuming that is your reason for visiting again? Or is this a social visit?”

Stan slapped the folder down onto the table, happy to bring the subject away from himself. The goat startled, running off to the corner of the room. Fiddleford saw his own name blazoned across the front.

“I suppose that’s a no,” he pouted. “But, what’s this? A file? On me? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. Anyways, there was nothing suspicious there. Clear as a whistle,” Stan grumbled.

“Then why am I honored with your presence today, Mr. Detective?”

“It said . . . it said you worked with Stanford Pines.”

Fiddleford sucked in a deep breath. “I did.”

“You know I’m his brother.”

“I do. He spoke of you often.”

 _He did?_ Stan’s mind screamed. Instead he said: “What kind of work did you do with him?”

“What has this to do with the woodpecker case?”

“Answer the question.”

Fiddleford took the time to carefully pour the tea, a cup for Stan (although he had not asked for one) and another for himself. He measured out four spoonfuls of sugar, dissolving it in clockwise swirls of the small spoon. With agonizing slowness, he lifted the cup to take a sip. Stan watched the ritual with frustration and fascination. Fiddleford savored the taste for another moment, before smacking his lips and finally beginning his answer.

“Your brother was an accomplished cryptozoologist. He studied abnormalities and the supernatural, well known for his knowledge of all things related to creatures and beasts. With my line of work, it was inevitable he would run in to me. We . . . collaborated occasionally on some projects. As I said, I have a Doctorate in robotics. Making robotic creatures is also a profession of mine and your brother took great interest in them.”

Stan scratched his head. “Yeah, I can imagine that. He loved all that nerd stuff.”

“Would you like to see some of this ‘nerd stuff’ as you say?”

“What?”

“Come to dinner with me tonight. I’ll show you some of my creations at work.”

His good sense screamed _do not trust this man_ , even more so now that he knew of Fiddleford McGucket’s associations with his secretive brother. But this was also the first lead he’d found in years. There were two children at home missing a father.

“All right, McGucket. I’ll come to dinner with you. But no place super fancy, I haven’t got the dough for it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of putting you out of your way. I’d like to think of us as friends. Please, call me Fiddleford.”

“Okay. Fiddleford.”

The name was sweet on his tongue, a playful jumping song. Stan liked it. He grinned and reached for an éclair.

“Fiddleford.”

* * * * *

Wendy whistled through he teeth, “I already made plans . . .”

“I understand. Can’t always have you at my beck and call every day, heh. Watcha doin’? Does it involve fireworks?” Stan realized she couldn’t see him smirking against the phone’s mouthpiece. “Actually don’t tell me. I need plausible deniability.”

“They’re big kids, Stan. Maybe it’ll be good to give them some freedom.”

“Right. That’s such a good idea, I’d swear I thought of it myself.”

Stan could tell that on the other end of the phone line Wendy was rolling her eyes.

 

“So let me get this straight. You’re not coming home at all tonight?

“Are you having a SLEEPOVER? OOOH WITH WHO?”

“Mabel!”

“I am not having a sleepover, but I WILL be home late and your butts better be in bed by then.”

“Is it something dangerous?”

“No, Dipper. Don’t worry about me. Just have a fun night on your own. Don’t burn the house down. And record Ducktective for me.”

“Got it. You can count on us.”

“I’m making candy sandwiches for dinner!” There was a distant crashing sound.

“MABEL! ThanksUncleStanbyeloveyougottago.”

* * * * *

They had almost reached the park, hugging the buildings and sticking to the shadows, when Mabel yanked Dipper behind a trash can, shoving his head down and thrusting her hand against his mouth. His white and blue hat fell to the ground.

“What are you doing?!” he whispered as he yanked her hand away.

“I saw Stan.”

The two peered around the rusted metal. Their Uncle’s face was illuminated by the streetlight where he stood in front of the restaurant marquee.

“Hey, isn’t that where Candy works?” Dipper asked.

“I guess they’re going out to eat?”

Stan looked nervous in contrast to the man at his side. Stan’s companion stood with confidence. He was about the same height as their Uncle, with around half the body mass. Now he had his hands cupped, imploring, but with the open stance of certainty that whatever he asked would be accepted. Stan said something, inaudible, and the other man placed his hand on the Stan’s back, guiding him towards the door.

Mabel gasped, turning to her brother with a frighteningly wide smile. “They’re on a date!”

“Or they could be exchanging secrets.”

“Yeah. Secrets about how much they loooove each other.”

“Unlikely. But anyone Stan thinks he can’t tell us about has got to be interesting.”

“Well, I think we should follow them and find out what’s up.”

Dipper scratched at his leg, bouncing up and down, teeth clenched. His body was at odds with his desire to follow his Uncle into the brightly lit noodle shop. Mabel’s excitement dissipated as she noticed his discomfort.

“We can go next time . . .”

“No, no, what if there’s not a next time, Mabel? We have to find out what they’re doing now!”

“Wait. I can make sure there is a next time.” She sat down on the concrete, typing a number into her pink phone. It rang three times, before a small voice crackled on the other end. “Hey, Candy. I’m gonna ask you a favor - of course, I’ll bring you all the forks you want - no nothing illegal, unless LOVE is illegal! – yeah, can you just find out who the guy my Uncle is going out with tonight is? He said he was going to your restaurant. This is an emergency – uhuh – yep – oh really? Cool! You’re the best, girl!”

“What’d she say?”

“She knows him! Apparently, he’s a regular. And guess what? He has a pet shop! So all we have to do is go check it out later. Like tomorrow, ehhhh?” She elbowed him in the ribs. “Animals! Dogs and cats and hamsters with big cheeks!” She puffed out her cheeks in imitation, going slightly red before she couldn’t hold her breath any longer, letting the air out with a raspberry. Dipper laughed, but his chuckles triggered a sudden pop and, suddenly, instead of ears two fur lined triangles sprouted out of his head. The black tips of his new deer ears trembled in surprise.

“Forget regular animals!” Mabel exclaimed, “We gotta go before YOU go full fuzzy.” He nodded in agreement, scooping his hat from the ground and adjusting it to cover the new changes before they dashed off into the night.

* * * * *

It was just the two of them in the small elevator, the noises of the restaurant disappearing as they descended. Stan stood ramrod straight. He trained his eyes ahead at the dank wall, but he could feel and hear Fiddleford rocking on his heels, humming to himself.

“I think you’ll like this,” Fiddleford said as the doors opened.

Stan had to admit he was impressed. The cavern bustled with people and creatures, some of which he recognized and many he did not. The place buzzed with energy, amplified by the spinning lights above their heads. There could not have been more than three hundred individuals at once, but they were packed close together they became an intimidating, chaotic seething mass. Stan watched the crowd move wondering why Fiddleford would possibly bring him here, when a warm hand was suddenly clutching his own, pulling him firmly through the crowd.

“Don’t get lost on me now, Stanley!” Fiddleford called over his shoulder. Stan swallowed. He would not admit it, but he was glad for the security of that hand, for the amount of people around him was both claustrophobic and over stimulating. Bodies jostled, shoulders and hips hitting him, wings flapping in his face, small gnomes scampering in his path, all threatening to send him stumbling over his feet. So, he allowed Fiddleford to keep him steady as he was led up to the edge of a broad boxing ring. There he could finally breath again.

Once they came to a standstill in front of the ropes, he tugged lightly, meaning to extricate himself from the other man’s grasp. Except Fiddleford did not seem to realize he should let go.

“Hey, what are you-“

“Shhh.” Fiddleford put the index finger of his free hand to his lips, and then pointed forward. “Just watch.”

A spotlight came on and a hush fell over those immediately surrounding the ring.

“FIRST CHALLENGER APPROACHES! FIGHTING IN HER OWN NAME, SHANDRA JIMENEZ!”

 _That voice sounds like Mabel’s friend,_ Stan thought, but he had no time to dwell on the idea as the woman that strutted forward quickly grabbed his attention. She was undeniably beautiful, with sharp cheekbones, warm brown skin and red hair. But he had only a few seconds to admire her, for once in the spotlight she bent forward and grey patches began to sprout on her skin, growing in an instant to cover her body in scales. Her limbs stretched in sickening rebellion of normal bodily proportions until she sat on haunches like a dog, paws ending in thick short claws. Then Shandra reared her head; now blackened reptilian eyes scanned the crowd. She shuddered, and with a loud crack her spine burst out of her back in sharp spikes as big as her body. Her mouth opened in a gruesome leer, foot long fangs dripping with copious saliva that fell at her feet. The crowd cheered.

“A chupacabra,” Stan breathed, voice low in awe. “I haven’t seen one in years.”

“Shandra comes to the shop often for goat or cows blood,” Fiddleford said, “Lovely woman.”

“SECOND CHALLENGER APPROACHES! FIGHTING IN THE NAME OF GIDEON GLEEFUL.”

“Oh, this one is mine!” Fiddleford cried, his eyes widening in delight and his hand flapping in front of his face. “I’m so excited to see it in action!”

“Wait, did I hear the name Gideon Gleeful?” Stan demanded. But, not even Fiddleford heard him as the creature burst into the ring roaring fire. Shandra shrieked, an unearthly noise, as she ducked to avoid the flames falling form the chimera’s lion mouth. The fight had begun.

Stan felt just as much as he saw the flow of the battle. Intimately connected to Fiddleford, Stan felt the man’s body tense with sharp intakes of breath at each hit, and sag with relief when one made an escape from a blow. There were squeezes of his hand when the tension rose as the two circled each other and trembles that scraped gentle nails against his knuckles as the chimera stumbled after a particularly violent bite from Shandra. There were short tugs when Fiddleford wanted to call his attention to a certain function he was especially proud of, like the whipping motions of the snake’s head, and sharper pulls when Fiddleford was especially nervous that the chimera might lose.

“GET BACK UP AGAIN, AH BELIEVE IN YAH!“ Fiddleford yelled. Stan heard the Southern twang fall strong, and saw the shining flush on Fiddleford’s skin, such a contrast to the controlled and prim man from the shop. This was the real Fiddleford McGucket, a man who got caught up in the thrill of the moment, a man with passion. And finally, when Shandra lay on the ground, five spikes missing and a burn along her entire right side, the gong rung and the fight was over.

“Wasn’t that fantastic! I was a bit worried about the coordination of the three heads, and internal warring dominance to each personality, but I was right, giving the lion the primary directive was the most effective method! It’s a pity I didn’t get to see the poison dispersal in action . . .”

“She’s hurt, Fiddleford. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

“She’ll be fine. There’s a Doctor on call, look. Hello, Kofi!” Fiddleford sent a friendly wave at a tall black man man who was now helping the limping Chupacabra to climb out of the ring. The man noticed him, but his expression stayed stoic until he caught sight of Stan at Fiddleford’s side. Then eyebrows rose in surprise, eyes flicking back between the two. Stan suddenly felt very guilty. He jerked his hand out of Fiddleford’s grasp.

“I’d like to stay for maybe one more round. It’s really better than I expected,” Fiddleford said. He did not seem to even have noticed Stan’s discomfort, or sudden lack of contact. Stan shoved his hands in his pockets, pointedly looking away. Instead he eyed the Chimera, which sat eerily still during the break. It’s eyes were dull and blank, staring at nothing, no life behind them.

“FIRST CHALLENGER CONTINUES,” the announcer called and Stan looked to its source, finally spotting Grenda standing upon a set of speakers, a microphone in her hand. “SECOND CHALLENGER APPROACHES. FIGHTING UNDER HER OWN NAME, WENDY COURDEROY!”

Sleek red hair, emerald eyes . . .

“NO!”

“Stanley, you can’t!” But Fiddleford's warning was lost on the man catapulting himself over the ropes and into the ring. The chimera and the entire audience were watching him now, but Stan only had eyes for the wolf. She looked miniscule next to Fiddleford’s beast.

“You are not fighting this thing.”

And then fifteen-year-old human Wendy Courderoy stood before him in her green flannel and blue jeans and brown fur lined hat.

“Get out of here,” she commanded.

“No.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I am NOT letting you get hurt,” he growled, “Are you insane? Did you see what this thing did to that Chupacabra?! You think you can beat this monster? You’re not that strong, Wendy.”

“Maybe I’m not yet, but I’m going to be!” She bunched her hands into fists, advancing on him. The Chimera rumbled.

“This is ridiculous and I am taking you home right NOW. Just wait until your Dad hears-“

“Watch out!” Fiddleford hollered. Stan spun his head, catching the Shopkeeper in his sight only for a second before he was knocked to the ground. Something jumped off his chest, spring boarding into the air. The Chimera roared above him and he looked up to see Wendy’s wolf form prying the lion’s jaws open. It shook his head, trying to free its mouth, to bite down, to throw her. Stan scrambled upwards.

The snakehead jerked at his recovery and hissed, and the full creature turned to barrel towards him. Stan drew a circle in the air, a yellow disk forming which he grabbed and threw, hitting the snake across the jaw. It reared back and the goat head screeched. Stan sent out another line of yellow magic, a blade that sliced across its underbelly, causing the beast to crumple to its knees. Wendy had swung out of the mouth and onto its back, where she shredded at the goat’s head with claws and teeth. The Chimera staggered, but the lion’s head was now openly throwing fire in Stan’s direction. With each blast he only narrowly missed being burnt to a crisp.

“Dance, Stanley, dance!” came the high pitched exclamation of Gideon Gleeful. Another dodge and he was in sights of the boy who stood at the edge of the ring, rubbing his hands together in elation. And next to him was Fiddleford, who was clutching his head in unmasked worry. For what? For Stan? No, of course not, it must be worry over the Chimera. After all, this was all Fiddleford’s creation. His machine.

This was a machine.

Suddenly, he had a plan. He began to chant under his breath, the picture of the Journal flashing before his eyes. Ford’s handwriting guided him now, Ford’s spells, the craftwork of a true mage. With no magical circuits of his own he was only borrowing his brother’s ability, even now he could not do anything without Ford’s help: the two of them together, even in separation. And as Stan spoke Ford’s words the water started at his feet, flowing around him until he threw it in to the air, it volume increasing by the second, where it hovered for one unearthly moment before crashing in a torrent upon the beast. There was an enormous spark, the smell of burning fur and the chimera stuttered and stopped. Wendy dropped to the floor in a damp heap. Stan ran to her.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine!” she snapped, glaring at him through her soaked hair. “Why are you even here?! I was supposed to win on my own!”

“Win? You couldn't have! Oh god, if I hadn’t been here to protect you,” he reached to hug her.

“It’s not your job to protect me!” She yelled, both hands pushed him forcefully in the chest. He stumbled backwards as much from the shock of her words as the physical push. She turned her back on him, and without another word, sullenly climbed out of the ring.

“EVERYBODY LISTEN UP,” Grenda’s voice pierced the palpable discontent, “IM SORRY, BUT, DUE TO A MAGIC RELATED FOUL, ROUNDS ARE CLOSED FOR TONIGHT. SEE YOU TOMORROW.”

The crowd booed. Stan saw the faces swarming in, their countenances livid. The chimera smoldered next to him. He was not welcome here. So, he did what he always had done best: he ran.

* * * * *

Stan buried his face in the crook of his arm as he leaned against the lamppost. The relative quiet of the street felt too wide, too many possibilities of what could emerge from the darkness. He shut his eyes, willing the sickness and fear to leave him. He had over exerted himself, trying to draw the water out of the air was nothing he should have attempted with his low-level earth affinity. And in the end he hadn’t saved anyone. Wendy had been right; she probably could have managed the Chimera on her own. They would not have let her die in the ring. Kofi had been there, he was the best supernatural doctor in the city. And in the first round, the gong had sounded before any lethal blows could be dealt; no death was probably a rule. Wendy had been doing fine without him when she had gotten on its back. Yes, he told himself, she could have defeated it without his hot-headed interference. All in all, the mess of the night had been entirely his making, he thought. Stanley Pines messed up everything.

He heard the footsteps approaching, not caring if it were friend or foe.

“Go away.”

“I can’t leave you,” Fiddleford’s voice said, “Not when you’re like this.”

Stan’s only reply was a deep shuddering breath.

“At least let me take you home.”

They sat in the car in silence. Fiddleford kept his eyes on the road.

“What’s your address?”

Stan led him in a monotone voice to the street. Fiddleford idled the car, as they got out. He walked Stan to the door.

“Look, I’m sorry about tonight.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Stan was too emotionally drained to verbalize how wrong he felt.

“Are you going to be all right?

“Sure.”

Fiddleford did not look convinced. What solace could he offer him if words were not what Stan needed at this moment? And it ocurred to him how alien this feeling in his chest was, a strong desire to comfort another person. Fiddleford bit his lip, before reaching out and laying a hand on Stan’s face. He was surprised to find his touch wasn't rebuffed. So he took a chance. The world moved in slow motion as he angled his head forward to place a delicate kiss on Stan's lips. There was no motive other than the smallest offer of consolation, sincere sympathy. Stan did not kiss back, his face blank.

“I should go inside. Mabel and Dipper need me.”

“. . . yes, you should,” Fiddleford said, defeated, “Good night.”

Stan watched the headlights of the car until they disappeared between the buildings.

 

Tate and Rosie had fallen asleep on the sofa, the TV still blaring. Fiddleford turned it off and pulled food from the fridge as quietly as he could. He watched their serene faces while he ate. In sleep there was no worry, no anger, no fear. In this house they were safe, kept away from his life they were safe. Tate might resent him, Rosie might be unfulfilled with him, but he was still a father and a husband. His family was safe and that was all that mattered.


	6. Source Decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two mornings and three vampires.
> 
> (This chapter starts out in the present and moves backwards in time through flashbacks.)

Fiddleford blinked. Sunlight and a familiar room.

“Are you all right?"

His view of the ceiling was replaced by Rosie’s face, lips pinched in their habitual frown. The harsh line of her mouth cut like a wound through her otherwise attractive features. The chin length brown curls of her hair swung above him, casting soft ringed shadows on her pale, round cheeks. Her brown eyes took in his disheveled form, but where the Pines’ twins’ eyes had warm hazel undertones, Rosie’s were dull like an oak’s bark on a cloudy day. Still, he knew he undeniably had a type, at least physically. Infatuation was easy, but the woman above him was proof that romance was harder. And in some fit of impulse he had kissed Stanley Pines, a mistake, he now realized. A terrible mistake. Fiddleford cursed himself, why did he always have to make everything so complicated? He wished he could sink further into the bed, get away from the woman above him. She would never begrudge him an extramarital dalliance, lest her own hypocrisy be called out, but she detested any form of self-deprecating shame. If he concentrated hard enough perhaps he could disappear entirely.

"I'm fine. I just went to a small boxing match with Stanley Pines. Don't worry."

"You're hungover."

“Swear I had nothin'. No moonshine. Not this time,” he said truthfully.

“Sure.” Her disbelief was writ large. “Come have the coffee anyways.”

“What time is it?” he asked, collecting himself to follow her into the kitchen. His suit jacket and pants were draped over the chair, but he still wore a crinkled white shirt, boxers and socks.

“11:30-ish.” She poured the brown stimulant into a plain white mug and handed it to him. “So, when did you get home last night?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.” Fiddleford shrugged; Rosie growled.

“Go take a shower. You smell like sweat.”

His wife’s face as hard as stone, Fiddleford knew he was beat. He slunk away, carrying the mug into the bathroom. She ran a hand through her hair, before rolling her shoulder; it still hurt from her fitful sleep on the couch. Eventually, the hiss of water announced that Fiddleford had followed her orders. She opened the door with no warning, the beginning steam hitting her face. There was no verbal reaction to her obvious presence as she, equally silent, collected the clothes folded over the sink’s edge, carrying them off unbidden to the laundry machine.

At least there were no red stains this time, she thought.

* * * * *

**JANUARY, 2001**

 

When the McGuckets awoke on the first day of the New Year it was dark. The City steeped long in winter already meant that, despite the shutters being open, no sunlight came from the bedroom window. So at eight am only lamplight would sweep across the maroon sheets of their bed, triggered by Rosie’s flicking of the lightswitch. Fiddleford still had his nose pressed into the pillow. She sat upright against the headboard, blanket laying around her hips. Rosie pulled a book into her lap, but the feint was unmotivated. The pages were left unread. She watched her husband, his body spasming in fitful sleep. Only thirty years old and the beginnings of lines were creeping across his face like malicious vines. The changes were even starker as his whole visage was scrunched up in pain. He still smelled like alcohol and blood.

The bedside phone rang, shattering the delicate quiet. Fiddleford groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. She reached for the receiver.

“You gotta help me, Fiddleford! Both of them are crying! They won’t eat this mush I found in the fridge! And I think Mabel’s diaper is dirty? Shoshanna’s got the flu, but of course I can’t take care of them. My research – do you realize I have just received news of a record number of selkie beachings down on the Shore? This could be my ONLY opportunity to grab a fresh pelt for examination! What a marvelous start to the New Year. But these twins, please- I can’t they’re-“

“Hello, McGucket residence,” Rosie deadpanned.

The frantic babbling stopped. She savored Stanford’s self-conscious silence.

“. . . hello. Excuse me, who is this?”

“I’m his wife.”

“Ah, of course, nice to meet you?”

Fiddleford cracked a bleary eye. “Whas goin’ on?”

“You never told me Stanford had kids,” she fixed her husband an inquiring look.

“Yes, yes! It’s me, Stanford, his friend!” crackled the voice over the phone, “Look I didn’t know who else to ask. This isn’t like Soos, anyways Imelda wouldn’t answer my calls, the Valentinos are definitely not a good idea . . . I couldn’t think of anyone else. You have to do this for me! I don’t know that many people with kids-“

“Fiddleford is in no shape to help you with babysitting.”

“I’m sorry,” Fiddleford said, his hoarse voice raised so it would carry over the line.

“Fine, I understand,” came the exasperated reply, “Maybe not ALL of us prioritize crazy New Year’s Parties. Maybe SOME of us care about the future of supernatural science-“

“But I can be over there as soon as possible,” she continued.

“Really? You’d do that for me . . . apologies, I can’t recall your name.”

“I mentioned you just last week,” Fiddleford muttered. “Social memory of a sieve.”

“You can call me Rosemary. Goodbye, Stanford.” She hung up abruptly, not inclined to listen to the man’s sorry excuse for gratitude. Fiddleford was lying on his side, baggy eyes looking at her with wide wonder, a small smile on his face.

“Best of wives and best of women.”

“This isn’t really how I wanted to spend my New Year’s Day,” she said sourly, “but I don’t trust you science men around kids anyways. It’s better for everyone.”

Fiddleford averted his eyes, blinking suddenly. She thought she could see the slight glimmer of tears before a hand came up to cover his face.

“Rest up,” she ordered, sweeping sticky hair away to lay a small kiss on the knuckles shielding his brow. Then Rosemary McGucket got dressed, and readied herself to play substitute parent for a pair of four-month-old twins.

 

Stanford Pines is an absolute disgrace, she thought as she watched the researcher’s car eagerly shoot off in pursuit of another supernatural adventure. From inside the house, the babies wailed. It had been a good ten years since the birth of Tate, but she hoped she could still be of some help to the bedridden new mother inside. Perhaps it was love that blinded her, but it comforted her to think Fiddleford was, however minutely, a better father.

* * * * *

**DECEMBER 2000**

 

Fiddleford knew he was in trouble as soon as Priscilla Northwest’s eyes caught him from across the room. She drifted towards him like a hawk circling its prey, shining white heels stepping with threatening purpose. She moved with the practice of a trained socialite, not fast enough to ever be accused of aggression, but in a manner that all would know not to interrupt her beeline towards her target. Fiddleford did not try to flee, instead choosing to throw back another tumbler of scotch. It might be his last tonight. Either way, he knew he’d need it.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked in a tone that conveyed her complete disinterest in a genuine answer to question. Through an alcoholic haze he gazed down his nose at her heavily painted face.

“Very much,” he lied, “Thank you, thank you muchly for your hos-pi-ta-li-ty. And might I say you look de-lovely.” Too quickly he grabbed her hand, jerking her forward so he could press lips to the white glove. Let no one say he was not a gentleman. For a blessed second he did not have to look at her face.

“That’s what they’ve all been telling me.” She snatched her hand back as if burned, holding it against her protectively. “Five months post partum and you look like you were never pregnant in the first place, they say. If only.” An unfeeling laugh pushed its way past her sardonic smile. “Of course, you and I both know the truth, but it’s good that this childbirth stunt has also done extra for my beauty reputation.”

“Neat magic trick!” he hooted, waving the glass in her face. She grabbed it from him, placing it on the table with a thud.

“You know a year long overseas retreat will do _wonders_ for your complexion,” she said, voice tinged with venom. “Anyway, I came to say thank you, Fiddleford.” He winced at his first name on her hard lips. She didn’t deserve to use it. They were not friends. “Pacifica is finally starting to show some . . . personality. And she is a good looking a baby. A good poster child for the Northwests.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, you’re welcome.” He slurred, looking away. He’d seen Pacifica tonight, a routine checkup, and he stayed at the party to see if he could rub elbows with future clients. But he had failed in that endeavor. No networking had happened, only attempts to drown the vision of the baby from his memory. She had burbled happily at him, no idea of who this man was, or how he had been complicit in ruining her life before she was even born. He hadn’t known the Northwests’ intentions when they’d asked for his advice on where to find such creatures. He never could have guessed they’d steal one for their own, pass it off as their daughter. Now all he could do was keep this one healthy. Fiddleford wanted to cry. Instead a loud hiccupping moan bubbled up from his throat. From behind the ice sculpture two women sent him matching looks of disgust.

“You seem too distraught for this party,” Priscilla said. “I think you should see a doctor.”

He was shaking now. Without the glass he had nothing to do with his hands, they flexed anxiously.

“See a Doctor! What a hoot. Y’hear that? Who? I’m the best Doctor in this house!” he cried. The women nearby were no longer hiding their glares, the swept away with audible huffs and derision at his character. Suddenly, he found himself pulled strongly through the crowd, his arm caught in Priscilla Northwest’s tight grip. She led him to a nondescript door.

There was a man inside the room, hunched morosely over a table. He was currently occupied in sucking on an IV bag swimming with a coagulating red liquid Fiddleford was unfortunately too familiar with. With the pair’s abrupt entrance, he pulled the bag from his mouth, a stray drip of blood running down his chin. His dark skin held the tell tale white ash coating of the vampire.

“Is this . . . a patient?”

“He’s whatever you want him to be,” Priscilla snapped. She gave Fiddleford a shove so he staggered, falling onto his hands and knees on the tile. This was a kitchen, not the main one, for although the banquet was underway this room was pristinely clean and empty. The door slammed behind him, locking with a sharp click.

“You’re drunk,” the vampire observed.

“Nice and observant, I like you,” Fiddleford said, righting himself to lean in a sitting position against the door. “She offer you a drink?”

“I think she just did.”

“Mmmm. You’re probably right.”

They sat in silence, Fiddleford feeling the effects of the extra scotch starting to overtake him, swimming in his stomach until it was unbearable and he finally retched onto the floor and a good portion of his own chest. He felt better. The vampire grudgingly moved to the sink to wet some paper towels.

“How old are you?” Fiddleford asked as his new companion crawled close to painstakingly sop up the vomit.

“Twenty eight.”

“No, how old are you actually.”

“ . . . thirty one.”

Fiddleford whistled through his teeth. “A young’in. I’m only thirty, but you know I feel so OLD already . . . but for a vampire you’re still in your prime! What’s got you hangin’ around playing bat-on-call for the Northwests then? You should be out there doing – whatever you do – blood.” He waved his hand at his neck. The vampire took his hand gently and placed it back at his side, before moving to wipe at leftover specks on Fiddleford’s tuxedo suit jacket.

“I’m not wearing silver,” Fiddleford stage whispered, “You smell it. I bet it smells good. Not that I’m special or nothin’, but everyone must smell soooo good.”

“I’ve been trained to resist the allure of human blood. Even at this close a range.”

“Ahhhh, Valentino project.”

The vampire stiffened. “How do you-“

Fiddleford let out a choking laugh. “I know everything. Everything! Must’a been one of the first.”

“Robbie was an infant when I met him, yes.”

“Poor baby. I do hope he’s okay . . .”

“He is still alive.”

“I’m so h-ah-happy,” Fiddleford emphatically thumped the vampire’s shoulder. “Tell me, friend-wait, you got yourself a name?”

“Kofi.”  
“Kofi, do you know anything about me, Fiddleford McGucket?”

Kofi looked at him with guarded eyes. “Not much. I know you own a Pet Shop. And you help connect people if they want something in particular.”

“That’s true enough. But I’ll let you in on a secret. I found little Robbie on one of my expeditions. Back when they were FUN. I thought I was happy, but no, no. Stanford’s research-OUR research-the portal-now it’s all gone to hell. Gosh, apologies, I don’t usually curse. I’m a right mess.” His voice was trembling hysteria now.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Kofi said. He was still trying to make sense of the intoxicated doctor’s ramblings, the threads of curiosity starting in his brain as he verbally tiptoed around the agitated man.

Fiddleford grabbed at Kofi’s lapels, pulling the vampire so they were face to face. “I want to forget. I want to forget what I’ve seen, what I’ve done.”

“Doctor McGucket-“

“You’re a Valentino boy, I trust you not to kill me. Please.” Fiddleford released Kofi to wrestle clumsily with his buttons, pushing the jacket and shirt open to expose a galaxy of purple marks, all of them in pairs of two. Bite marks. “I need it,” he moaned pitifully. Kofi contemplated the sorry sight before him. He knew if he drank from this man he would be sick later. Sweet nectar to horrid pain. But it would be a worthwhile penance, for feeding from the living. But Fiddleford was right, the heaving chest and rosy face did smell heavenly. Now the doctor had reached to entwine his hands in the Kofi’s curled hair, tugging down insistently. They were both panting.

“This isn’t the answer,” Kofi whispered in his ear, voice strangled.

“Please.”

Finally, the vampire buckled. Instincts overcoming conditioning, he dove down to pierce Fiddleford’s shoulder with fangs that already elongated in anticipation. The scientist cried out in joy as the toxins flooded his system, endorphins going off like fireworks in his brain. And when the vampire’s venom had fully saturated system, his mind was blissfully blank. He couldn’t remember a thing. 

He never returned to the party.

Across town, Rosemary McGucket had gone to sleep early. Still, the doorbell awakened her at three am and she answered it to find her disheveled husband sprawled on the Welcome Mat. A bat swooped back down the street, but Fiddleford was conscious.

“Was it worth it?” she asked, as she helped him stagger into the bedroom.

“No. Everything’s coming back to me. At least he didn't take enough to turn me.” He sniffled miserably, wiping a hand at his running nose that added to the myriad spots and stains that peppered the destroyed tuxedo. When they reached the double bed he undressed with unsteady hands, falling unceremoniously onto the mattress afterwards.

In the dark she reached to hold him, but he turned away from her embrace.

* * * * *

**JANUARY, 1997**

 

Kofi couldn’t see. All he remembered was the man’s voice, ‘no one will miss another one of you’: then sharp pain, indescribable pleasure and pain again, electric as if every cell in his body were being fried. His brain white and hot. Now the pain was different, delegated to his wrists and ankles and across his chest, burning ropes. He had the vague idea that time had passed. His eyes were open, but he could not see. Somewhere, someone was singing.

 

_Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;_

_Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away._

_Change and decay in all around I see._

_O Lord who changes not, abide with me._

 

A female voice, soft and sweet. How could something so beautiful seep through such pain? Kofi turned his head towards the sound. Small spots of color began to appear in his vision, drops of paint in black water. He tried to lean forward, bring the shapes into focus, unintentionally straining against his bonds. A shout fell from his lips as the pain ratcheted in intensity, hands squeezed into fists. He could not move. The shapes continued to shift, tauntingly, dancing forward and back. Now his whole vision was nebulous color, like staring through a shaking opaque curtain.

“Alice! He’s coming to!” A male voice on his right side called. Brown hair, sitting, glinting half moons, glasses?

He became conscious of a thirst, a deep thirst that started at the back of his tongue and emanated throughout his body. It was as if each thought, each movement made the thirst more acute, a yearning that consumed his thoughts. His body felt stretched, hollow and empty. He had to fill this void. He had to fill it or he would die.

His vision continued to clear.

There was woman standing at the back of the room. She had short red hair and round glasses, a pink turtleneck and light blue jacket. She rocked a small baby, its brown hair blowing in light wisps over its chubby face as she sang a soft soprano. He clutched at her chest as if trying to climb into her bosom. The thirst roared hot like a monster. Kofi whined, and the child began to whimper.

“Shh, pumpkin, don’t cry!” she cooed.

The child’s wailing grew louder as it beat a fist against her shoulder.

“I think he’s ready now,” the man said, “Hasn’t taken his eyes of him for the last thirty seconds. Hand him over.”

The woman looked worried, but bided her husband’s wishes and transferred the child into his beckoning arms. The child was close, so close.

Its eyes were wide and liquid. Kofi nodded, desperately. Come closer. Please.

“This isn’t a bad man. Just like your new Mommy and Daddy. Good.” The man was bouncing the child on his knee, but Kofi’s ears felt filled with cotton, the words barely trickling into his brain. If not for the bonds he could reach out and touch, he thought. He wanted to touch, bury his face against the child’s neck.

“He wants to eat you, Robbie, but he’s not going to.”

_Eat?_

Yes, eat. That was exactly what he wanted to do. The desire to consume: that was the yearning deep inside him. He wanted to lick the smooth skin, the pulsing vitality of the infant. He imagined the plumpness of the cheek, the absolute bliss of breaking the skin, then the blood would flow shining and bright and fresh . . .

“Days since Change: three. First sign of consciousness. Two minutes since human contact, pupil dilation, gum recession,” Alice Valentino said, writing on a yellow legal pad.

“You hear that, little man?” her husband replied, gently pinching the baby’s cheek, “He can’t resist you! You know neither can I. You look delicious.”

“Leslie!” Alice reprimanded, “Don’t even joke about eating our new son.”

“Apologies, dear.”

Kofi heard a deep hiss, animalistic and feral. And he was shocked to then realize it had come from his own mouth. Leslie Valentino’s eyes narrowed, the sclera darkening, inhuman, alien. Kofi had a sudden urge to flee. Robbie trembled in his father’s arms.

“I think they’ve had enough,” Alice said, gently. Her husband made no sound, only stood and carried the baby out of the room.

 

They gave him no food or water. The thirst grew with each grueling hour. He felt gaunt, ragged. There was a clock on the wall; he counted down the hours with the slow rotations of its gilded hands. It had been night when he had first awoken, but there was a window, the blinds remained drawn, and during the day sunlight peeped out from the gap between the sill. He stared at the yellow line on floor with discomfort. He preferred the night hours, when the sun did not menace him, and all that remained was the dim chandelier.

Two days later, Alice rolled in a television on wheels. It looked ancient, at least fifty years old by the small screen and bulky knobs. Every piece of furniture he’d seen so far looked to be from a long ago epoch, except the silver links binding him. These were sharp and pristine as newly minted coins. Alice banged at the dusty machine, asked him if there was a specific program he liked.

“Don’t care. Thirsty. Hungry,” he begged.

“The suppressant should kick in soon.”

“I’m going to die,” his voice was high and rough. It did not feel like his own.

“You’re not going to die, I promise. We’re taking care of you.” She seemed to be assuring herself as much as she was speaking to him.

“Please.”

“You’re going to live,” she said emphatically. “Now, TV?”

He shook his head. She brought a folding chair to sit next to him, pale face dripping with concern. She looked sickly. Her skin was thin and ashen with bags underneath her otherwise pretty hazel eyes. Her son’s face had been healthy, red and wholesome. The cherubic vision had given him optimism in his brutal waking hours.

“Can I see t-the baby?”

“Robbie just went to sleep right now,” she rested her face in her palm, twirling the pen in the other, “I never realized how much babies cry. Then they need to sleep when they tire themselves out, poor dears. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Leslie and I could never have children of our own. We turned before we had the opportunity.”

“What do I have to do with this?”

“Nothing. I’m just a nervous Nelly. I fear Leslie gets tired of my blathering.”

He tried to feel sympathy for her, but he could not muster it. She was free, she had a husband, a child, and she could come and go as she pleased. She was not the one chained up in this room. It occurred to him that if, he stayed any longer he’d probably lose his job at the bookstore for not giving absence notices. He wondered how long it would take to die from thirst.

“I have to go manage the shop. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some television? I imagine it’ll get lonely here.”

“You’re monsters.”

Her mouth quivered. “We try not to be.”

 

They visited him at least once every six hours, sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for an hour. He preferred Alice. Her husband always seemed to be distracted, his brain scattered as he stared at Kofi, writing observations on his pad. He was not hostile, giving wry smiles and chummy pats on the shoulder.

They still did not bring him nourishment, yet he did not die of thirst. He began to sense other presences, if he closed his eyes new heightened senses. He grew an awareness of other forms, moving, running, just out of reach outside the house and outside these silver bonds. Warm bodies, swimming around him. Alice and Leslie weren’t warm.

Something was wrong.

He asked for the radio. There were some interesting programs, about panda sanctuaries or immigrant education or NASAs plans for the future. Clinton had been reelected. It kept him from going crazy.

 

On the fourth day they brought Robbie back.

As soon as he caught sight of the child Kofi screamed, jaws snapping viciously. The chains rattled as he struggled to break free. He needed to hold, to bite . . .

Afterwards, Leslie sopped his sweaty brow as he cried. He’d bitten his own lip in his fervor. Long teeth now shrank back to normal size.

 

On the tenth day, Alice brought him a newspaper. It was a single page, an obituary.

KOFI KINCAID, 24

PRESUMED DEAD. THE YOUNG MAN’S BLOOD WAS FOUND . . .

She held a mirror up to his face. His own eyes stared back at him, but the cheekbones were sharper, the skin thin and there was a new yellow pallor underneath the brown. The fangs were smaller, but still noticeable. The same ones he had noticed in both Alice and Leslie’s mouths.

She left him to his mourning.

 

Each day they brought Robbie back now. And slowly, the time it took for Kofi to relax around the baby lessened. By the twentieth day, his only reaction to the child’s entrance was slight stiffening. When he was not screaming the baby did not fear him. Robbie seemed to love vampires. He beamed at Alice, who smiled back at him with the warm wonder of a new mother. Robbie shrieked happily as his father swung him around in his arms. The family played games in front of him, singing songs and bouncing toys. They looked almost normal.

When he was able, Kofi could talk.

“I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry.”

The baby placed a hand over his own heart. Kofi took that as a sign he was forgiven.

 

On the thirtieth day they released him.

Walking out on the street he felt lost in the sudden openness of the City. People passed by and he smelt more than saw them, their blood tantalizingly sweet. His eye twitched and he looked away. Under his coat bags of blood squelched.

So he began a new life as a creature of the night. The soft singing of Alice Valentino drifted down from a window, a solemn soundtrack to his rebirth.

 

_I fear no foe with you at hand to bless,_

_Through ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness._

_Where is death's sting? Where, grave, your victory?_

_I triumph still, if you abide with me._

 

Fiddleford McGucket stood on the doorstep of the Valentino Funeral home. He had heard of their project, Leslie lauded his success and gossip passed quickly in supernatural parlors and dive bars. A new mission of the Vampire Acceptance Movement, creating a blood tolerance from the start. It was a well-intentioned and useful undertaking in theory, but he felt guilt at his own part in it. The child had not asked to be a pawn in the vampires plan and he considered if he could have given Robbie another fate. He ached to know how the baby was doing. Alice and Leslie were kind people, but could they protect Robbie from everything his role entailed?

 _You have no reason to feel responsible if he is accidentally hurt. In fact, it’s better if you don’t,_ he told himself _. You have enough with your protecting your own family, with protecting yourself._

He wasn't convinced, he was far too empathetic for his own good.

In the end he did not ring the bell and left with a heavy heart.


	7. Genesis 19: 1-2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford and Fiddleford meet a certain spider woman, the Teenagers discover a body, The Council holds a meeting, and Stan is confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two angels arrived at Sodom in the evening, and Lot was sitting in the gateway of the city. When he saw them, he got up to meet them and bowed down with his face to the ground.  
> “My lords,” he said, “please turn aside to your servant’s house. You can wash your feet and spend the night and then go on your way early in the morning.”  
> “No,” they answered, “we will spend the night in the square."

**DECEMBER 1996**

 

When Fiddleford McGucket first met Stanford Pines he was a Graduate TA at Backupsmore University. That broad shouldered, curly haired freshman had strode his way into the Robotics Club with unprecedented alacrity and Fiddleford never would have guessed that ten years later they would be elbow to elbow, about to descend into the depths of the New City Sewer system. He had been skeptic when his old student turned friend had wrenched open the manhole to an area that was clearly abandoned. The rusted metal ringing the dark tunnel belied a dirty future. It was far too easy for Stanford to rope him into these awful shenanigans. After a long training a new litter of baby nagas (and one especially slippery nagini), Fiddleford had been anticipating a quiet night at home until the eager phone call had come in. All the researcher had to do bend Fiddleford to his will was open his mouth, his verbose speech painting a picture of an untapped trove of mechanical parts and an ecosystem of fantastical creatures. Stanford was good at that, making up stories so farfetched you thought the tale was ripped from the fitful dreams of a ten year old that ate too much candy on Halloween. Yet the passion behind his assertions told you he believed every word he said. When Stanford’s eyes sparkled with the thirst for adventure Fiddleford wondered how a blue collar New Jersey neighborhood turned out a man as equally intent on boot thumping thrills as he was on holing up in a library

Ford, as he was called, was both exciting and unsettling. Surely this level of tiring obsession and self-confidence was not simply in his genome. Nerdy boys like they were usually not blessed with an ego, their niche interests delegating them to the victims of bullying and peer alienation. He knew Ford had been teased for his intellect and fingers, but the stories of abuse had been told with a tone of resentment and anger, not fear. From what he could tell Ford had retained no trauma, instead he embraced supernatural anomalies as he tried to embrace his own, to an almost tiring degree. So, Fiddleford had been both exasperated and elated when he got the call. Essential parts to the portal might be found in the abandoned labyrinth, it was imperative that Fiddleford come and lend a hand! Initially he had paid lip service to not going, as Rosie glared him down from where she chopped vegetables, but Ford had sounded so gung-ho and sure of Fiddleford’s usefulness.

_Only you can help me! I need your mind. Maybe you could find some alligators for your shop, or radioactive pigs or even something magical! It’s a big wide world out there Fiddleford. I can’t do this on my own. I can’t do without an assistant, a second hand man._

_Aren’t we friends?_

There was the felling blow to his resolve; he could never turn down a friend. That would be blatant rudeness and Fiddleford considered himself a man of the highest manners. Nor did he want to turn Ford down. If they found no parts or creatures, at least he would be able to spend valuable time with his partner. As nervous as Ford’s projects made him there was an undeniable exhilaration in the pioneering nature of Ford’s missions. So, Fiddleford had shucked on his coat and arrived at the given address within the hour.

Now he grasped a hand to his nose, an unsuccessful effort to block out the stench of the abandoned shaft. Once they had climbed down the ladder only a single column of moonlight provided minimal lighting. Ford strode into the darkness, Fiddleford cautiously on his heels. The metal and concrete had buckled and sunk with time, creating a waterway within the recesses of the grey skeleton, its foci stagnant pools of water teeming with all manner of toxic bacteria. They had only been underground for ten minutes and Fiddleford suspected his shoes and pants were irreparably soaked with the stuff. He listened with envy to the rubber squeak of Ford’s protective boots. Moving further and further from the entrance, he lost track of his friend in the dark, until the sigils on Ford’s palms sparked. The bespectled mage held two bright orbs of tennis ball size.

“It’s safe,” he assured, dropping one into Fiddleford’s cupped hands. They glowed spectacularly for their size, illuminating the area in a thirty-foot radius around them.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Fiddleford asked.

“I’m not sure. I awoke this morning to high activity readings from this area. The magical energy was concentrated and unmoving, which means it is either a creature’s home or an inanimate energy source. For the life of me I could not explain away the high readings, there is absolutely nothing unusual above ground. Until I discovered that these tunnels run right under the brightest points of activity. When this mission is over I’ll have to rework the machine to anticipate elevation and depth. Who knows what wealth of discoveries could be made down in these sewers.”

“So, you’re saying you have no idea what we’re looking for and there’s absolutely no certainty we’re gonna find anything down here.”

“Don’t be defeatist, Fiddle-wait!”

Ford halted so quickly that Fiddleford ran into his friend’s back, knocking his own glasses askew.

“What is it?” he hissed, as he peered over Ford’s padded shoulder. The two stared past the dark horizon of their magical light bulbs. A skittering and shuffling reached their ears. Probably rats, Fiddleford thought, but he shivered nonetheless.

“Don’t you dare chicken out on me, buddy,” Ford said.

“I-it’s just the water in my Oxfords.”

Suddenly, a long wail echoed through the tunnel. The sharp sound hit a familiar key inside Fiddleford, and a distressed keening muscled its way from his throat in response. Not here. Not in this dank, dark, dangerous, _disgusting_ sewer. He felt sick. Fiddleford did not consider himself to have protective instincts, but in a minute the engineer had pushed past his companion, running towards the sound. He had no plan, only the urge to find the source, and do _something_. But Ford quickly caught and restrained him by his shirtsleeves. Their struggle sent the light bulbs rolling to the ground.

“Let me go!” Fiddleford yelled as he flailed. “That was a baby! A baby’s down here!”

“It’s obviously a trick. Don’t be an idiot!” Stanford’s strong arms were an unbreakable cage around his chest. Fiddleford’s feet scrabbled at the floor ineffectually, as he tried to free his arms, until he changed tactics to place a direct kick to his captor’s inner shin. Ford howled in anger and pain.

“Why the FUCK are you so-“

The sound of a great flapping of wings interrupted him. Several large and leathery objects hit them in the side, knocking them both to the floor and breaking their fight apart. They were being bombarded by airborne creatures, the edges of the wings scraping at exposed skin and other slicker, dripping body parts drenching their clothes. The air around them swirled at such a high speed to force their eyes closed. Fiddleford could still hear the baby crying over the wind, as he tried to shield his face from the onslaught. Then a six-fingered hand was grabbing his wrist, pulling, and he was running blind.

The creatures were gone in the same rush they had come.

“W-what were those things?” he stuttered. Ford’s concentration must have been broken and the magical lights were gone, but he could hear him breathing at his side, although his grip was gone.

“Eyebats,” came the disembodied reply. “Harmless albeit annoying in packs.”

“Well, that’s a relief I suppose. But I wish we had some warning, might have been a good acquisition for the shop,“ Fiddleford lamented. He blinked in the darkness. “Would you mind giving us a little more of that light? I don’t like it down here.”

“Neither do I.”

A snap and a small flare bloomed between Ford’s thumb and forefinger illuminating the new tunnel. Ford inhaled sharply. Fiddleford’s breath caught in his throat.

Mummified bodies surrounded them on all sides. The innumerable bulky forms were tied to the ceiling and walls, morbid rank and file continuing into the dark. The bodies were completely wrapped, the semblances of limbs coupled together with an all-encompassing webbing. No skin was visible. The wrapped faces were a mockery of humanity, white and alien, open mouthed and screaming. Yet the indents of eyes still seemed to stare with wretched despair.

Then the baby cried again, jerking them out of their reverie. Ford whipped around, swinging the light with him. The flame’s licking spotlight danced across the figure of a hunched woman. Her brown skin was spotted and sagged, high piled yellow hair stained orange in the firelight. The shadows on her face were dark where it was poised over the small bundle in her arms. She looked up slowly, an incongruous grin stretched obscenely pink lips around a toothy mouth.

“Oh my what handsome men. Who would think I’d ever find such studs down here?” She tittered, a harsh, grating sound.

“What are you doing here?” Ford asked.

The woman pouted, straightening up. “Well, I don’t knooooow,” she whined. _Too loud_ , Ford thought. “You see me and my . . . son here were just outside going to the grocery store. Then some awful brutes come up to me and next thing I knew I woke up here.” She shrugged signaling the end of her story. Ford frowned at its brevity.

Fiddleford, on the other hand, did not seem disturbed by the vagueness. The Shopkeeper was already walking towards the woman. He tried to project tenderness and calm onto his scared face, but did not succeed. Ford thought the result looked even more disconcerting than fear did.

“Don’t worry ma’am. We’re here to help you,” Fiddleford’s voice cracked.

“Oh, are you? My _heroes_.” She batted her eyelashes coyly. They were thick and long, gaudy in their intensity, but fitting with the heaviness of all her makeup. Even in the low light the violent green of her eyelids stuck out.

“Where’s your husband?” Fiddleford continued, glancing down at her hands. No wedding ring. “Or boyfriend,” he amended.

The woman’s face tightened. She was no longer smiling at him. “You think I should have a man with me?”

“Oh no. I just thought . . . the infant . . . you see, I-”

“Awww, aren’t you a cutie." She pinched his cheek. “You’re so sweet to care for a stranger like me. I like you.”

“Fiddleford, get back here,” Ford hissed, “She’s obviously a degenerate.”

“What?!” the two yelled in unison, a duet of incredulity and offense.

“Just look at what she’s wearing. No self-respecting woman would wear that.” Ford’s voice rose in volume, unapologetically eyeing the woman with suspicion. The hand not holding the flame made an obscene cupping motion, indicating the low neckline of the pink strapless shirt that barely contained her ample breasts. Fiddleford gasped at the vulgarity, but the woman seemed more incensed than hurt. She sashayed over to Ford, her gait tilted as if she did not quite know how to walk. She pressed herself against Ford’s chest, glaring up into his face.

“And what’s it your business what I wear?” she demanded.  
“None. It’s none of his business!” Fiddleford cried, “And usually he would never say such a thing.” Not a lie; Ford was never intentionally insulting towards women, although he had a subconscious lack of tact. “Unless-“ From across her shoulder Ford pulled a cutting motion across his throat. Fiddleford bit the sentence back at the order, although he did not understand. What reasoning did Ford have for doubting this woman?

“Unless what?”

“Uh, um, he . . .“ Fiddleford’s eyes were wide and begging. _Trust me_ , Ford mouthed.

“I thought so,” she spat, the venom now evident in her voice. “No excuses for your Friend. I take back what I said about you. All the same. So, you’re not going to help me since I’m obviously a dirty lady of the night. I’m not worth it, noooo. Submissive virginal maidens only for big, strong adventurers like you.”

“That’s not what we meant.“

“Well, you know what darlin’? I don’t like what _you’re_ wearing. And I think,” and now she was in front of Fiddleford, a hand around his tie, “you’d look so much better,” on his throat now “dressed up” squeezing tight, fingers, sharp nails, no longer fingers, pinchers, black and biting “IN MY SILK.”

Her free flew up to yank at her face, the skin peeling away instantly, and suddenly a huge spider was bearing down on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The baby screamed as it was dropped to the ground. Fiddleford could not scream. He felt the grasp on his throat tighten, other spindly limbs wrapping around his lower body.

“Get away from my friend!”

A bright flash, seismic shake as the weight once on him hit the floor with resounding force, and Fiddleford could breathe again. He saw Ford, panting after having charged headfirst at Fiddleford’s aggressor. The scientist was a shining beacon, humming with energy as magic curled protectively around his body. The spider was collapsed against the right wall.

“The baby,” Fiddleford warned, “ we have to go!”

“Grab it and run!” The spider righted itself and charged. Ford threw a fireball, lazing across the spider’s furred back, but not hitting flesh. A pungent burning smell filled the tunnel. Fiddleford scrambled across the floor, scooping the child up into his arms, and began to run, Ford at his rear. His shoes were not made for this kind of speed, he slipped and careened, heart thumping in his ears. The spider gave chase.

“How do we get out of here?” he yelled over the soaring roar of Ford shooting twelve white blades from his fingertips. Four hit and the spider reared back momentarily, the others shattered against the wall, tearing webbing in their path. Bodies tumbled to the floor, minutely blocking the staggering spider’s path. They gained a few feet of advantage. Fiddleford had no idea where he was going, he indiscriminately ran down any open hole he could find. All that lit his way was the light of Ford’s combat magic.

“We’re gonna have to blast up!”

“That’s insane! The rock will crush us! And we can’t let that thing out on the streets.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

“No, you can’t! You can’t do that spell while you’re fighting that thing!”

“Then you’ll have to do it!”

Fiddleford glanced over his shoulder in shock, but Ford’s face was deathly serious. His eyes were focused on the oncoming spider; he muttered a spell under his breath, and another twelve blades launched out. But the spider curled up on itself and the blades swept by without hitting their target.

“DAMNIT!”

“Is that the best you got!” the spider cackled in the same human voice, taunting and jubilant. “You can’t run forever boys! I know these tunnels like the back of my hand. And do you really think your inferior human legs can win out against my eight?” It unfurled and leapt forward again, easily reclaiming the small distance they had gained. Fiddleford kept running. His legs and lungs burned, but the clacking sounds of the spider’s pursuit kept him moving forward.

“What do I do!” Fiddleford pleaded. Ford gritted his teeth, but did not respond. Instead the light disappeared. Ford was no longer on the offensive.

“That’s right!” the spider cowed triumphantly, “You and I both know you miserable men deserve to be food. Come to, mommy!”

“STANFORD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!”

The spider lunged and Fiddleford dove to the ground, curling in upon the child. A useless last act of defense. Ford had given up and all three of them would end up suffering an excruciating death as they dissolved into spider food. It was all over.

Except it wasn’t.

He cracked his eyes open. The spider was indeed above him, furious green eyes boring into him, but between them was a shining blue barrier. Ford was still standing; spine bent back and arms outstretched. The shield was rooted in his palms. He was sweating and panting, limbs tense from exertion.

“Go into my bag,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “The journal. Page thirty nine.” The spider swiped at the shield, legs deflected with harsh scratching sounds. Its eyes were protruding and bulbous with anger. The force of its unsuccessful blows pushed Ford back on his heels.

Fiddleford moved the child into one arm, and pulled open Ford’s satchel, easily finding the Journal. He nearly ripped off its cover as he frantically sought out page thirty-nine. The spider threw itself against the barrier again. Ford yelled in response, a trickle of blood running from his left eye as the shield doubled in thickness and spider was thrown back again.

Fiddleford found the spell, the words easy to read in the light of Ford’s magic. He dearly hoped his weak magical circuits were enough to power it. If he was not strong enough they were doomed by his poor blood. Fear made his mouth dry, but he recited the incantation with stumbling speech. On the last line he pointed upward, and on the last syllable white-hot magic exploded outward from his palm.

Fiddleford’s spell hit the ceiling at the same time that Ford dropped his shield.

The metal and rock exploded outward, a deafening sound as the tunnel ceiling collapsed in upon itself. The spider screeched, but an ear splitting sound silenced by the dirt and boulders cascaded down upon its head and body. The two men turned and continued to run as the avalanche of dirt and debris rolled into the open space of the tunnel.

Eventually, the onslaught slowed to slow trickle, dusty clouds and light pebbles. The mountain on top of the spider must have risen high enough to block the hole that Fiddleford had made. Ford fell to the ground, heaving, unconcerned with the filth he now lay in. The Journal he had grabbed fell from his grasp. Fiddleford collapsed against a wall and let forth a hacking cough, purging his lungs of the dirt residue in the air. Once he had regained the power to breathe, he slowly lifted his hand from where he had held it protectively over the infant’s face. The child coughed lightly, but did not appear damaged. He sank to sitting position and hugged the baby to his chest.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

Ford groaned, “I can find the exit. Do an area scan for my own magic. Follow it. Just. Give me a while.”

Fiddleford looked down at the baby. It waved its arms, a hospital bracelet around its wrist.

_Scene: a man in his mid-twenties, missing PhD classes for the first time in his life, pacing up and down a fluorescent hallway and matching eyes with equally anxious Fathers to Be. He did not trust himself in the delivery room. It had been four hours so far. He’d brought papers to grade, but the words and sentences fell to pieces as his imagination conjured up more arresting ideas of what was occurring behind the maternity ward doors. The hospital food was tasteless._

_They hadn’t let Rosie take Tate home, dismissing her from the hospital although their son remained in the incubator. She had not cried, but her sorrow was evident as she sat blankfaced on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest and rubbing a hand over her receded stomach. He echoed the doctors’ words: Tate would be absolutely fine and safe. But the emptiness of a new mother without her baby was not to be consoled._

Now he imagined another anonymous woman, perhaps with the same dark eyes as the child he now cradled. Dark eyes that would be scrunched up in pain, pleading for the newborn stolen from her.

“I reckon we did one good thing today,” he said. Ford groaned.

 

“You can’t bring him to the hospital,” Rosie said. She pressed a finger against the baby’s button nose. It grabbed to pull off her wedding ring, but she moved her hand away.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I have to bring it to the hospital.” Fiddleford’s voice drifted from the open doorway of the bathroom. He splashed another round of water on his face.

“No,” she said firmly. “If you do they’ll be suspicious. No one would believe you just found him. You’d be investigated.”

“I cannot believe you,” he said, throwing down the towel he had just used to dry, “There’s probably some distraught woman looking for him! Rosie, you can’t be that cold. Beside what else are we going to do with him?”

She gazed at him, hope boiling in her brown eyes.

“Sweetheart, we can’t keep him. Please don’t make me explain all the reasons why that is a bad idea.”

“Worth a shot.” Her voice trembled.

“That’s another woman’s child. How would you feel if you had your child taken from you?”

“Well, how do you think I would feel if my husband were dragged away charges for kidnapping? Or illegally trafficking animals and money laundering?” she snapped.

Fiddleford sighed as he walked out of the bathroom. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She averted her eyes, instead staring tenderly down at the child.

“Oh, Rosie.” He kissed her temple lightly.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I would never. You’re right. Let me take him to the Kelly House, the orphanage. And you can phone the police station, or the newspaper later. We’ll keep an eye out for anyone asking after a lost child.”

“I already did,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I already did. No reported missing children in the past month. Or they're lying to me.”

Fiddleford sat heavily on the bed. “I don’t think they would lie to you.” He put his head in his hands. “What a mess.”

“This Kelly house. I don’t know it.”

“You wouldn’t. It’s for supernatural children. Or children raised within the supernatural world.”

“I want this child to have a normal life.”

“That’s impossible now. I want the best for this child as much as you do and this is the best option. I personally know the owners and I trust them.”

“If . . . if you think it’s best. You always know best, Fiddleford.”

“I hope so.”

 

Sixteen days later, on top of the morning paper (with the Missing Persons section Rosie now religiously read), the McGuckets received an envelope. Tucked in were a letter and a picture. The photo framed a bright baby, smiling happily in the arms of a red-haired woman. The letter’s text was in elaborate circling cursive.

 

_Dear Fiddleford, Thank you for letting us know about the newborn. We took a liking to him immediately and the Kelly siblings were quite accommodating in expediting his transfer into our care, especially once they heard of the intentions of the Vampire Acceptance Movement. He is a perfect candidate for our project as well as being a delightful child. To my pleasure, I do believe Alice has taken a singularly maternal liking to him already. You know, I have not seen her as content in years and it warms my heart. I look forward to considering this child my son, should he survive the first few trial runs. And we are taking as many precautions as we can, but as a scientist I am sure you understand not all risk can be foreseen. I know it is premature, but we have named in Robert Stacey, although we have taken to calling him Robbie. Classic names you will recognize. I suggested we should name him Fiddleford, in recognition of your charity, but you will forgive us for not wishing to grace him which such an unconventional name. Yet I hope you still understand that you have our truest thanks. You have been a good friend. Please come see us some time._

_Sincerely,_

_Leslie Valentino_

 

* * * * *

**PRESENT – JUNE, 2012**

 

“Heeeey, Wendy.” Robbie Valentino dumped himself on the bench, not touching the girl sitting there, but still circling his arm behind her shoulders. He hoped she couldn't see the sweat pooling around his collar, the sweater was far too hot for a summer day. At least it looked cool. That made the discomfort worth it, he reasoned.

“Subtle,” Tambry coughed.

“Ugh, get off. I’m not in the mood.” Wendy refused to look him in the eye. Cowed by the sour face she wore, Robbie pulled his arm back.

“W-well. Okay. Fine then.” He balled his fists. “Don’t have to be so mean about it,” he muttered at the ground. His shoelaces were untied, weeks of dragging them behind him left them dark with dirt. On purpose of course.

“Guys, guys, let’s not fight!” Lee Martinson leaned forward, placing an amiable hand on his two now equally morose friends’ shoulders. “We gotta do something fun!”

“What are you thinking of?” Robbie said, but he relaxed slightly in anticipation of future teenage antics of dubious morality.

“Whatever it is, it’s probably lame.” Tambry clicked her phone, but she sat down on the other side of Wendy, a sign she was listening.

Before Lee could continue they were interrupted by a agitated yell. Thompson Alexander came running, finally having caught up with his “friends.”

”Did you make a plan without me?” he wheezed. This breathlessness was not a symptom of over exertion; Thompson was surprisingly fit for his stature. Yet his words still fell out in airy pants.

“We always make plans without you,” Nate Guitterez grinned from where he leaned on Lee’s back, an act that did not bother the other at all.

Thompson wiped his brow. “Haha, yeah. Right.”

“I got the perfect idea,” Lee said, conspiratorially. “You guys wanna see a dead body?”

Wendy’s face lit up. “Hell yeah.”

“Awesomeeee!”

 

Robbie eyed the dark form dubiously. The man was on his side, facing them. A black barrel chest was shoved in a singlet, thick amount of hair overflowing at the low collar. Loose blue jeans, torn now, stained with innumerable body fluids that poured from lower orifices upon death. The man’s mouth was open, the vomit pooling from where he had tried to purge the poison. He had not succeeded. His eyes were open, glazed over with red blood which pooled around his bald head where the word HEAD was tattooed in huge letters.

“Found him like that two hours ago. Don't usually get to see stuff like this before the cops show up.”

“Man, the pattern of blood on the shirt is sick bro,” Nate confirmed. “All blotchy and like . . . cool, you know.”

“You didn’t tell us there would be grown-ups here. Watching from the bushes is so boring,” Wendy crossed her arms. Lee’s previously excited face fell, apologetic and needlessly dramatic. The blonde’s lip quivered and he fixed Wendy with wide, pitiful eyes. Nate patted his arm in consolation.

“I’ve already tweeted about this.” Click clack came the typing.

“Are you crazy!” Robbie pulled his hair, turning to the girl who’s face glowed with the blue from her screen. “That’s how the cops are gonna find us and think we did it!”

“People don’t tweet about the people they killed.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s the perfect alibi. And the cops’ll see right through it.”

“This is too dumb for me to waste energy on.”

“Let me see!” Thompson whined. They moved aside to let the chubby boy through.

“You can look, but you gotta be quiet,” Wendy said, “We don’t want the adult to hear us.”

Thompson didn’t need to be told, for no words would ever have dared leave his mouth faced with what he saw. He recognized the dead body. Tats, a friend of Bud’s. Worse, he recognized the red-cloaked form that was currently chalking a circle around the deceased man: skull tattoos to rival his victim, dark red eye, face that belonged to a skeleton instead of a man.

The ghost was swooping in frantic circles, invisible to all, but Thompson. Its look of distress was anomalous on the visage of the man who had been so fearless and indomitable in life.

“Ivan, what are you doing? Ivan!” it bellowed, each exclamation becoming more agitated, as it was obvious he was unheard. Ivan finished his circle, nodding to himself, pleased with his handiwork. Then, he clapped and like ice, a blocky shield built itself around the man. The dripping blood paused mid flow. The man was frozen.

“How’d he do that without a spell?” Nate breathed. “Only the most powerful mages can do that! And I don’t know him, he doesn’t look like he’s from any of the major families.”

“He’s not a Shifter. As far as I know,” Wendy added.

Tambry raised her head and sniffed. “Can confirm. Not a shifter.”

“He’s not a vamp.”

“Duh, Robbie, we all know what a vamp looks like.”

“Excuse me for trying to be helpful.”

“Guys, shut up he’s looking for witnesses!” Thompson warbled. The others took notice, for as much as they disregarded Thompson, none of them were blind to the potential for real danger. The all drew away from the glass.

“I’ll cast a Cloaking-“

“No, Nate, what if he can sense spell casting!”

“Shhh!!”

The golden metal gun was raised, as Ivan swung it about. A vein by his eye throbbed, and the red iris spun, scanning, as Thompson knew. The teenagers held their breath as he turned towards the bush that shielded the small basement window.

It seemed that he gazed at the bush forever. And then he tucked the gun into his cloak, turned on a basic Cloaking Spell, and fled.

Wendy whistled.

“Let’s get out of here.” Robbie turned, hands shoved into his pockets.

 

They walked through the street more subdued than before.

“That was hella tense,” Tambry said.

“Jeez, I’m sorry. I thought you’d like it. Guess it was lame.”

“Don't worry. It was great.” Wendy felt her mood had been ironically buoyed by the experience. It had been a good distraction. She hadn’t thought about Stan the whole time. “That weirdo spooky dude made it even better. Super cool. Right, Thompson, Robbie?”

“Y-yeah.” “. . .yeah.”

“Damn, Lee, how do you even find something that rad.”

“You know most dead bodies are like actually super boring.”

“I think your parents are cool,” Wendy jabbed a playful elbow into Robbie’s side.

“Oh my god,” Tambry deadpanned.

Robbie cracked a small smile. Wendy smiled back at him.

“So, next time I find a cool dead body, yes or no?” Lee asked.

“Bet I’ll find one before you do”

“Bet you ten bucks.”

“You’re on.

Nate and Lee high-fived.

Thompson fiddled with the hem of his shirt, staring at his feet as he walked. The other teens continued their desultory conversation, but he remained silent, thinking. He wondered if Bud knew about Ivan. He wondered if The Leader knew about Ivan.

* * * * *

Fiddleford’s eyes were ringed from lack of sleep, he was staring at the table absently, head cradled in the palm of one bent arm. Bud felt a twinge of sympathy, but the meeting was of the utmost importance. The Council only held daytime meetings for crisis; the Leader could make up for sleep afterwards. Besides, he should have a better sleep schedule; eight AM was hardly unreasonable.

“Mrrhhmm,” Toby rumbled, as he sat down, the last to join them. “So, why are we all here fellas?”

Bud removed his hat, pressing it to his chest mournfully. He gazed at the assembled men and women with trepidation.

“Tats is dead.”

Toby squeaked. A few gasps came from around the twelve person table that now only sat nine. The coin Tyler had been flipping missed returning to the hand that was now clasped to the Leprechaun’s mouth. It clattered on the table for a few seconds, before dissipating in a small cloud of glitter. Fiddleford raised his head, mouth open in shock that he unsuccessfully tried to hide by pushing his glasses up his nose and coughing. Good, Bud thought, he was alert when he needed to be.

“How do you know?” Ivan demanded.

“Tats and I have breakfast together every Thursday. In that fine little park behind his bar. Quiet and secluded, you know Tats never liked people seeing that he favored fine china and Rose cakes. Well, you should imagine my surprise when I show up with my best set to find him on the ground, dead and encased in a small-scale time stop spell!”

Fiddleford bit his lip. This was serious. Exactly like the Khandewal and Sprott cases.

“This is very sad,” Tad Strange said. His voice was measured, more an announcement than a pledge of empathy. He was still smiling slightly, but it did not reach his eyes.

“This is an epidemic is what this is." Shandra Jimenez slammed her fist on the table. “Frankly, it is atrocious that it has taken this long for any of you to care about what’s happening.”

“Such strong language. I never did take you as one for sensationalism, m’dear.” Bud chuckled hollowly.

“If you thought the Society was being lenient in its treatment of the previous events, you should have said something,“ Fiddleford said.

“You were the one who assured us nothing was wrong.”

“And I still believe it. This is only three people.”

“He’s right,” Toby added, “ Every day tons of people are murdered or die suspiciously in our line of work.”

“Sometimes even by us,” Tad said with inappropriate brightness.

Shandra pursed her lips. “Three members of our Council in the last week. As a reporter, I should tell you this seems suspicious.”

“Well, I bow to your instincts,” Fiddleford conceded, “but may I remind you that the first was an accounted casualty of my shop.”

“Why Shandra, are you implicating Fiddleford’s good name?” Ivan turned his head to eye her suspiciously. She matched his glare.

Fiddleford frowned at the discontent that cackled in the air. “No she’s not. She is just understandably worried. I admire it.” He smiled at the reporter. The small hostile spikes that had started to sprout out of her spine receded.

“Apologies.”

“None needed, sugar, since no offense was taken.” Ivan was silent as he pointedly looked away.

“Well,” Bud cleared his throat, “I do have a bone to pick with you, Fiddleford, if you don’t mind. See my boy, Gideon you’ll remember.”

Everyone at the table groaned audibly. Bud pretended not to notice as he continued: “He’s always hanging around the Police Station. Picks up info now and then. And it seems the Supernaturalists do suspect you.”

“I know.”

“You know?!” Toby exclaimed “The Supernaturalists! After the Leader! We can’t have that!”

“Actually, if they had to come after anyone I am glad it is him. I trust him to take care of himself.”

“Thank you, Tad. Although, if I had my pick I would choose you. No one does normal better than Tad Strange.”

“Enough of this love fest,” Shandra had a notepad out, already writing. “So Fiddleford will manage it from the police side to minimize interference or perhaps piggyback off their info. What other action should we take?”

“Git ‘em! Git ‘em!” Tyler whooped. “Let’s have our own investigation!”

Fiddleford tapped his finger thoughtfully. “Has anyone of our Order been killed that isn’t on this council?”

Toby pulled a piece of paper from his hatband, and unfurled it, reading. The assembled waited with bated breath. “Not that we know of,” the gremlin finally announced. The woman in blue and the man in pink threw up their hands in frustration. Fiddleford reckoned he was too tired to remember their names. After the incident with Stan and the chimera at the boxing ring he had not slept a wink that night, only pretended so Rosie wouldn’t worry.

“As far as we know the only danger is to those seated at this table. But I thought we were the only ones who knew the Membership of the Council,” the woman in blue said.

“We have lots of Enemies. It could be any of them,” the man in pink added, “Perhaps even some we are no aware of.”

Fiddleford stood, hoping it would make him seem more official than he felt. “Unfortunately, you are right. Until we gain more insight, I think the only solution we have is to not be anywhere alone. Go in pairs or more, even in your own homes. And at least one person in your groups should be a Mage. It is a small protection, but Ivan can circuit us into a tighter grid. If I might have a piece of hair from each of you, I can match your magic frequencies to his main circuits. If any of you are attacked in the future, you can then transmit to him and he can magnify your frequencies to alert the others.”

Ivan held out his hands. Each member of the table pulled a hair out and placed it into the grey palm. Fiddleford clasped his hands together and bowed.

“Well, it’s been lovely to see you all. Remain vigilant my good friends. Meeting dismissed.”

When seven of the nine had left, Fiddleford slouched back into his seat with a sound like a wounded animal. Ivan watched him bang his forehead miserably against the chair's backboard.

“I hate to see you in such distress, Master.”

“You should know I’m always distressed. This job isn’t easy.”

“I suspect so. You should know you have my deepest condolences and if there is anything I can do to ease your difficulties, I am at your bidding.”

“That’s nice. When did I program you with sympathy circuits?”

“You never did,” Ivan smiled, a lurid affair. “I suppose I learned that on my own. And as I hold the DNA samples currently, will you be doing the aforementioned reprogramming now?”

“No, I need to go to the shop today.”

“Forgive my boldness, but is that a good idea? You seem exhausted.”

“I am, oh I am. I’ll take something for it. But I can’t risk missing Stanley Pines if he comes in today. I need to find out what he knows.”

* * * * *

In the light of day the fight in the boxing ring could have been a dream. Stan wished it were, but the singed hem on his jeans that morning said otherwise.

He was riding his usual commute. A burgeoning headache pounded over the steady rumbling of the train, exacerbated by the teenage couple chattering away at his side. He shifted to avoid having his shoulder touch the girl, leaving him uncomfortably hunched against the hand pole. He tilted his forehead to touch the metal, seeking a small respite from the heat, but the surface was still slick with warm hand sweat. The train car was an old one and the lack of air conditioning was sweltering. He would need to hydrate upon arriving at the precinct. Perhaps he could get away with only deskwork today, he felt nowhere near capable of putting on an air of competence at a crime scene. His brain was still sifting through the events of last night. The girl next to him had red hair. It was near the same shade as Wendy’s.

Wendy hadn’t come to work this morning, but he hadn’t expected her too. If she didn’t show up tomorrow he’d after to call her and see if she ever intended to come back. Shoshanna would never let him see the twins again if she found out he left the without a sitter every day, the relative laxness of the possible ex-sitter notwithstanding. Today Dipper and Mabel had to do with Soos alone. Stan squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that with the unknown girl out of his line of sight Wendy would disappear from his mind as well. He missed her already.

Instead, the other main player of his night flashed across his eyelids. That moment on the stoop, Fiddleford’s blond hair had been highlighted by the old streetlamp, wide blue eyes turned slightly downward to accommodate their height difference. Bright pools of intensity you could lose yourself in. Stan had been hypnotized, distracted, that was how Fiddleford had taken him by surprise. He had taken advantage of Stan’s weakness to kiss him. What a jerk.

Stan pressed a hand to his own lips at the memory, his thick fingertips nothing like Fiddleford’s soft mouth. He had forgotten how warm kissing felt. Not the quick smooches of children and relatives, but the caress of another’s lips locked in your own. Stan slapped a fist against his knee in frustration. He hated being so uncertain about Fiddleford’s intentions. People just didn’t kiss other people out of the blue! There were always reasons behind these actions. The most confusing part: the shopkeeper had not tried to feel him up in any capacity, so there was no desire or intent on having sex with Stan. No something much worse. Fiddleford must have felt something for him.

So, Fiddleford had wanted to kiss him simply for the sake of kissing him. _Why?_ his brain screamed. Had Fiddleford been watching him as he fought the Chimera? Had he been impressed? Or had he just seemed that miserable and sad that he had been granted a kiss out of pity? Either way, the kiss prompted by some emotion on the Shopkeeper’s part, an emotion that he incited.

Not a chance, he concluded. It had to be a ploy. Fiddleford knew Stan still suspected his criminal leanings, the Chimera last night making the presumption even more probable. Fiddleford had attempted to use his assets to his advantage; it was the oldest trick in the book. He must realize he was attractive. Stan knew the type: gay men who dressed trimly, flaunting their lithe figures and shapely asses. Fuck him. Stan wouldn’t fall for this. He wouldn’t be played for a fool.

There could be solution, he thought. He could arrange it so he never saw Fiddleford McGucket again, consequently he would never have to face the repercussions of the kiss. It would serve Fiddleford right, Stan reasoned, the sharp talking Southerner probably thought he had him wrapped around his finger. He wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. As soon as he got to work he’d call Carla. Ask her to take over the investigation.

The train slowed to a stop.

But, he realized with cold clarity, if he never set foot again in McGucket’s Menagerie he would lose the only hope he had towards finding Ford. Fiddleford was the only one he had met so far who had any awareness of what work Ford had been conducting before his disappearance. No, as much as Stan dreaded it, he had to go back.

 _You’re doing this for Ford’s sake,_ he told himself. _Don’t call Carla. She’s not going to pick up all your problems. Be a man, Stanley Pines. Do it for your brother. You need to find out what Fiddleford McGucket knows._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Members of the Council of the Society of the Blind Eye are (in order of seniority):  
> 1\. Fiddleford McGucket  
> 2\. Blind Ivan  
> 3\. Bud Gleeful  
> 4\. Shandra Jimenez  
> 5\. Woodpecker Guy/Fulton Khandewal (deceased)  
> 6\. Tad Strange  
> 7\. Toby Determined  
> 8\. "Farmer" Elias Sprott (deceased)  
> 9\. Tats/Douglas Richardson (deceased)  
> 10\. Tyler Cutebiker  
> 11\. The woman in blue/Jeylan Gohkan  
> 12\. The man in pink/Aurelio Leyman
> 
> Of course, I made up some of these names.
> 
> Tambry is [this type of Shifter, a Tariaksuq](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tariaksuq). She could be totally invisible from Regular Humans (Mages included) if she wanted, but she chooses not to. She finds the Spirit world boring (there's no wifi there).  
> 


	8. New Monster Avenue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill makes two deals, Dipper learns about Stan's past and present, Mabel gives Waddles and Mermando their new names, and somehow Stan has ended up having tea with Fiddleford AGAIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much dialogue i apologize in advance

Today was shaping up to be a disaster.

The blue suited child was standing on the futon (shoes on the furniture, the nerve!), tapping his shined foot against the plush seat. He had arms crossed and mouth in a grim line that looked rough against his clear, round cheeks. Fiddleford approached with dread.

“Good morning, Doctor McGucket,” Gideon said, leveled and threatening.

“Good morning, Gideon.”  
Melody was pruning and she gave Fiddleford a silent wave of shining shears, apologetic and also an offer of backup lest he need it. The goat was helping her by munching branches in blissful ignorance, while the pig ran circles around her feet. It was almost the same size as Gideon and possessed a face similar in form although of significantly less antagonistic quality. Doctor McGucket had insisted that any Gleeful had automatic entrance to the shop, although had it been her call she would never allow them to set foot within the door. Each meeting always left her employer drained.

“I want another Chimera.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Fiddleford said as Melody offered to help him remove his jacket. “I still have the blueprints. I can make another within the week if I put my other orders on hold, although the rush will be an additional cost.”

Gideon’s face turned beet red. “Ludicrous demands. After last night’s stunt, I refuse to pay another cent!”

Fiddleford had anticipated this. “Well, that will have to be negotiated. The Chimera was destroyed under your ownership. We didn’t agree to any warranty.”

“Stanley Pines ruined it not I!” the child shrieked, “And you assured me it would be indomitable! How do I know you aren’t in cahoots with him? Sell monsters and have him wreck them so we come crawling back and you can milk us poor mages for every piece of our power! You’d be nothing without us!“

He could hear Melody sucking in her breath behind him. For someone as well entrenched in the Supernatural as Fiddleford, the acknowledgment of his severe lack of genetic magic was a staggering insult. All his power was derived from his rich clients, men and women who had natural, regenerative reserves of magic, enough to pay a poor man a share if he offered something in return. Fiddleford had to sell pets and machines in order to gain any power. The ploy had been Ford’s idea, typical of a man who would never have foreseen the social consequences of his ideas. And although Fiddleford was successful he also lived in a constant state of fear and anxiety, teetering on a precipice was exhausting. He held close the knowledge that he could plummet into complete helplessness without his clients’ goodwill. He lived a desperation few acknowledged, but all knew. In the Supernatural World Fiddleford McGucket was both respected and pitied.

“Get out of my shop.”

Gideon immediately stopped his frenzy, shifting to a reconciliatory tone. “Oh no, Doctor McGucket. Fiddleford, may I call you Fiddleford? You wouldn’t do that. We still have so much to talk about, to arrange. Of course, I’ll pay you. After all, my family has quite a lot to give a man as _talented_ as yourself.”

“I don’t need whatever you have to offer. I have other clients.”

“Of course, you do. But can they pay you as handsomely? May I remind you that few rival my family in our wealth? Stanford Pines, Preston Northwest, everyone in this town knows you’ll bend yourself over for a good mage. I can give you plenty. Don't be so choosy.”

“Get. Out. Now.”

Fiddleford was unmoving. The two stared at each other for a minute, until the boy huffed, jumping down off the futon and striding to the door.

“You’ll regret this. The Gleefuls will not forget your noncompliance.”

“Mmm, I think you just might. Tell your father I’ll be visiting soon. Have a good day, Gideon.”

Fiddleford’s voice was modulated, but Melody could see his hands shaking as the door shuddered with the force of Gideon’s exit. The raccoon that had been hiding among the ferns came and scraped its snout against the blue of Fiddleford’s pant leg, leaving a small trail of mucus, but the Shopkeeper was unperturbed as he bent down to scoop the animal into his arms. Small hairs rubbed against Fiddleford’s cheek as he buried his face against its neck and closed his eyes, before sitting down with the animal in his lap. The racoon licked his cheek.

“Mister McGucket would you like me to get you some coffee?”

“Thank you, but the Missus gave me some before I left.”

“Something else? You don’t look so hot.”

“Just a glass of water and some distraction, please,” he groaned.

“Right away, sir. I’ll bring the food delivery and payment accounts if that works.”

“Perfect.”

* * * * *

“Farewell!” “SEE YA!” “You know when we’re meeting right?”

“Course, I do. You told me like a million times. Have fun at your movie!” he assured the three girls in the doorway. Mabel was counting the contents of her purse, making sure she had everything she needed: keys (with pink kitten keychain), drugstore lipgloss, money, cell phone, transit card.

“WE INTEND TO.”

“You have the address right? You can read my handwriting?” Candy asked.

Dipper nodded, holding up the piece of paper. Candy beamed.

“All right, girls, I’m all ready!” Mabel clipped her bag closed. “Are you getting excited for some Summer Romance?”

“I’M CRYING ALREADY,” Grenda said solemnly, “ANGELA BETTER CHOOSE HENRY OR I WILL RIOT.”

“That is absurd. Randall is clearly the better choice.”

“Stop it you two.” Mabel pressed a hand over each of her friend’s mouths. “The answer is that she gets to be with both of them. Randall and Henry obviously love each other AND Angela, so everyone can be happy together.”

“YOUR FAITH IS IMPRESSIVE. BUT SADLY THAT IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.”

“We won’t find out what happens at all if we don’t go! It starts in forty five minutes.” Candy tapped a nail to her watch.

“Okay, let’s go! Let’s go!”

Dipper chuckled to himself, as he closed the door, before turning to once again look at the address he held in Candy’s neat script. He had three hours until they were supposed to meet. Soos was working on a boiler and so he could count on at least some of this time to himself. He pulled out the journal turning to one of the empty pages near the end. Tape it in, another mystery: _McGucket’s Menagerie_. Leave plenty of room for future notes, but now he had other things to investigate.

On the opposing page was the list of phone numbers he had copied from the picture he’d taken from Stan’s room. Next to each set of initials and number he had written out notes on the identity.

ShP – Shoshanna Pines (Mom – could question again, but answers will probably be the same. Vague, how much does she know?)  
WC – Wendy Courderoy (Wendy would not have been alive before Dad disappeared. Unlikely suspect.)

DC – Dan Courderoy (Thanks Wendy for confirming. Will question last. He is big.)

SR – Soos (involvement in Dad’s disappearance HIGHLY UNLIKELY. Its Soos.)  
CM - Unkown

IR – Unknown

RV – Unknown

JK – Unknown

KK - Unknown

The phone rang as he nervously tugged at his shirt, sitting crosslegged on the bed. CM.

“Hello? Who is this?” A woman’s voice.

“Ah-herK-hEY” Voice crack! Stupid! “. . . Hello. My name is Dipper Pines and-“

“Pines? Is this about Stan?”

“Yes, ma’am. This number was in his contacts and I just thought. Well, we’re worried about him . . .” Open ended, let her fill in the blanks, make assumptions. Dipper knew the premier way to get adults to spill information.

“Worried about Stan, pfft, welcome to the club. You sound like a kid? How old are you?”

“I’m twelve, uh, thirteen! A teenager.”

“Uhuh.” The doubt in her voice made Dipper fume. “Well, how do you know my sweetie Stanley?” A giggle, a god honest giggle at the noise of shock and disgust he’d let slip over the line.

“I’m Carla,” she continued, “Stan’s old ex-girlfriend. Don’t get any ideas, but if you got a problem with him I can help you. Except for Ford I’d say I knew him best. So what’s up?”

. . .

“You still there, Little Pines?”

“Stanford Pines was my Dad.”

The sigh was melancholic, the same he’d heard leave his mother’s (and his grandmother’s) mouth far too frequently. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Is that what’s happened? Has Stan had another one of his episodes? Either he gets reckless staying out all hours or never leaves his bed. When he’s thinking of Ford there’s no in between.“

“The first one.”

“I can work with this. Listen, Dipper. Weird name. Nickname? Dipper. You’re not going to like what I’m telling you, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Bet you notice how stubborn your Uncle is. Well, he’s been chasing your Dad, chasing Ford for ten years now, and I’m sorry, if he’s found a trail he’s going to keep tracing it until he reaches a complete dead end. My best advice is to wait it out. Stan can take care of himself.”

“But I could help. And here I thought he was trying to hide some deep, dark secret from us, he wants Dad to come back! I have Dad’s Journal, there’s so much I could do!”

“You stole Stan’s copy of Ford’s Journal?!”

“No? I have my own . . .” The words finally registered in his mind, replacing the previous exhilaration with something more sinister. _Stanhasajournalstanhasajournal._

“I have to go.”

“I said something wrong again, shoot. Listen, please, _please_ , don’t do anything stupid. And I know asking a Pines to not do something stupid is like asking a bird not to fly, but at least promise me. If you get in trouble or . . . or Stan doesn’t come home for a day . . . or anything, call me. Carla McCorkle, you have the number. Promise.“

“I promise.”

“No crossed fingers.”

“No crossed fingers,” he swore.

* * * * *

HEY DON’T POP A GASKET. IT’S NOT IN THE JOB DESCRIPTION FOR ME TO CLEAN UP IF YOU ACCIDENTALLY BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT.

“Do you know why I summoned you?”

I AM THE WARDEN OF THE PANOPTICON THAT HOUSES ALL OF MANKIND, OF COURSE I DO.

“Excellent. Now, Bill, I didn’t think I would have to resort to such measures, but that man is trying my patience! Asking McGucket for help was an unmitigated failure. How hard can it be to separate that no good trickster Supernaturalist from his infernal Journal!”

JOURNALS JOURNALS JOURNALS THAT’S ALL ANYONE CARES ABOUT THESE DAYS. WHY DOES NO ONE EVER ASK ME HOW MY DAY WAS? FABULOUS THANKS FOR ASKING.

“I need Stanley Pines.”

SHEESH, FINE. DONE AND DONE, KIDDO. NOW I’M GOING TO GO OUT FOR A BIT, BUT BY THIS TIME TOMORROW I PROMISE I’LL HAVE BROUGHT STANELY PINES TO YOU.

* * * * *

WELL ISN’T IT A BUSY DAY AT THE OFFICE!  
“I need your help.”

OF COURSE. WHY ELSE DOES ANYONE SUMMON ME? BUT I’M A GENEROUS GUY. WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU? DO TELL. I’M SHIVERING WITH ANTICIPATION.

“I have to capture new subjects for the experiments.”

DOESN’T SEEM LIKE THOSE EXPERIMENTS ARE WORKING OUT TOO GOOD FOR YOU IF YOU NEED MY HELP.

“Nonsense. They are going perfectly. I just haven’t reached a power capacity to rival yours yet.”

DON’T HOLD YOUR BREATH. BUT OH YOU FLATTER ME, HOW COULD I RESIST? WHO SHALL I USE AS A PUPPET? BULLSEYE ISN’T AN OPTION SINCE SPECS IS ON GUARD AFTER THE LAST TIME I GOT A LITTLE . . . CARRIED AWAY, AHAHAHAHA.

“Fiddleford is rightly suspicious. You destroyed an entire tenement. At least it was uninhabited, except for the imps.”

SMALL LOSS. EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE.

“I was only stating that I believe your words were a tad of a understatement. I’m not condemning you. In fact, I’m applauding you! What incredible power! I was awash in awe and jealousy. So I have brought my idea to the table. You could use me again.”

BOLD!

“Well, with you it’s the closest I can come to feeling like a God.“

HEY WAIT. WHY IS YOUR FACE TURNING RED? ARE YOU SICK? I CAN’T HAVE MY FLESHBAG BREAKING ON ME BEFORE I’VE EVEN GOT IN THERE.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine. I’m just so pleased you’ve agreed.”

THEN LET’S START THE PARTY!

 

WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL YOU HAVE GOTTEN STRONGER SINCE I WAS LAST IN HERE. MINUTELY. DON’T GO GETTING IDEAS, EVEN THE STRONGEST OF YOU MEAT SACS ARE ALL OF SUCH WEAK CONSTITUTION.

_“Thank you. Your opinion means the world to me.”_

SO WHAT’LL IT BE? WHAT DO WE NEED?

_“A vampire and a mage. One or two each. To start.”_

EASY PEASY. I HAVE JUST THE ONES IN MIND.

* * * * *

“Wake up!”

A newspaper smacked unceremoniously against Stan’s forehead. He glared at his assailant. Deputy Durland took in the sorry view of bloodshot eyes and dark circles.

“Hard night, I guess.” Durland at least had the dignity to look mildly ashamed as he smacked a set of clipped papers on Stan’s desk. “But nap time’s over!”

Stan stretched, cracking his back audibly. “All right, what is it?”

“Have you gotten further on the Khandewal case?”

“No.”

“Here’s something that might help.”

Another murder. Douglas Richardson was a bartender at a place called the Skull Fracture. Eyewitness reports said he was well liked and respected within his community. A cushy upper-middle class childhood, he had inherited the bar space from his parents who had previously used it as one of the storefront for their successful chain of Pharmacies. He reaped profits as a co-owner and acting company board member, but otherwise was left to his own devices. His bar made a minimal profit, but with early secured wealth he had been running it for fifteen years, providing a haven for the more down and out types who might find themselves in the neighborhood.

“This isn’t from our area. Is something up with Carla that she can’t handle it?”

“Nope, she’s fine, but she said to send this to you personally. Here.” There was a hand scribbled memo on crisp white stationary, tied to the pile with twine. Carla was a romantic, still sending wrapped packages instead of overflowing email attachments like everyone else.

_Check the notes on mode of death and how the body was found. Should match your interests. And there’s a specific photo that might also be useful. I hope you know what you’re doing. XOXO Carla._

He pinned the note to the cluttered cork board that hung by his desk before spreading the files out on the table, jerking his blocky glasses out of his jacket pocket. He glared at Durland until the Deputy slunk back to his office, satisfied that at least a semblance of work appeared to be transpiring.

_Cause of death: venom ingestion. Currently under analysis. Subject was found incased in a localized time-stop spell._

Stan groaned and flipped the page.

The photos were of different sections of the body, all stained with vomit and blood. Unnecessarily gruesome. Whoever had poisoned Douglas Richardson had meant to make a spectacle. And then there was one, unassuming and plain. The main subject was a denim knee, lying out on stone, but Carla had marked the photo with a bright pink circle sticker. Underneath the crook of leg, almost in shadow she had circled a one-inch area. Stan pushed his glasses further up his nose and pulled the photo closer.

There on the rock, almost hidden, was the same familiar symbol: a red eye crossed out with an X. Unnoticeable unless one was looking for it. It was a definite calling card, beckoning to be chased like a coy woman. It infuriated Stan that he was following the obvious trail of breadcrumbs set down by the perpetrator, but there was no other lead. He would have to be wary.

“I’m going out.”

“Good riddance,” Durland said, sipping his tea.

* * * * *

The girl was looking at him as if he was a bug under a microscope. Fiddleford squirmed.

“I’m Mabel Pines! I’m twelve years old and this is my twin brother Dipper and we wanted to know what you want out of our Uncle Stan. We saw you two going into the noodle shop last night!”

“Mabel, what happened to subtle?!”

“Subtle-schmubtle. I want answers!” She was on the sofa now, hands on her hips as she leaned close enough that Fiddleford could see the freckles on her cheeks. He gulped defensively. That familiar look of determination incited a deep panging in his heart, all earnest bright brown eyes. She really was Ford’s daughter.

“I was just having dinner with your Uncle. Nothing unusual about that.”

“And where did you meet him?”

“He c-came to the shop. He . . . he was looking for a pet for you!”

“Really?" There it was on Mabel’s face again, an expression so painfully Reminiscent of his old friend. Now she emanated all childish trust and intrigue; the same face Ford wore when he had sat in the Brambles for four hours taking notes on the gnomes.

“Wow, you’re so lucky dudes,” Soos said, “I wish I had a pet, but Abuelita is allergic so she won’t let me.”

“You know there are plenty of pets that are hypoallergenic. Like Grenda’s iguana,” Melody said.

“SAY HI NEWTON!” The iguana blinked at the small crowd then crawled back into the collar of Grenda’s shirt. She grabbed the hem and began to shake it. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING? DON'T BE SHY!”

“Ehhh, scaly dudes aren’t really my thing. Make me think of monsters. Like the ones that look cool on TV, but they would be super scary in real life. Godzilla. Or like what if he’s like a spy for the future reptilian overlords?”

“Oh man, you’re funny!” Melody giggled and Soos beamed. Fiddleford felt a sudden urge to glance tactfully at his feet, while the four assembled children stared in awe. “I get it,” the Shopgirl continued, “but there’s plenty of other kinds. I can show you sometime later.”

“I would like that. For you to show me. Later, I mean.” Soos rubbed the back of his neck and Dipper felt slightly better about his own sweating when he spotted the sheen now forming on Soos’ brown skin.

“Later?” Mabel exclaimed, “What about now?! Can we look now? I don’t see any animals, what kind of Pet Shop is this anyways. Show us the animals!”

“SHOW US THE ANIMALS! SHOW US HE ANIMALS!”

“What about the horse I saw last time I delivered a message here,” Candy asked. _I mean the Unicorn_. Her lips did not move, but the additional sentence echoed inside Fiddleford's head like he was suddenly in an empty tunnel, and he shuddered involuntarily. He would never get used to telepathy. Ever.

“Unfortunately, Celestabethabelle was sold last spring.” Candy hung her head in disappointment and Fiddleford placed a consolatory hand on her shoulder. “Dice put me in touch with a fellow who was up to take him.” The Irish Dullahan had introduced him to the American Headless Horseman, a spirit that in the last century had moved due to the suburbanificaton of Tarrytown to a more rural scene upstate, and, in a fit of ironic humor, taken on the alias name Ichabod. The Horseman kept a low profile now, rarely haunting any travellers. _So much harder with all the cameras and trains and cars out these days,_ he had complained, as Fiddleford had nodded sympathetically. Instead, the Horseman tended to a small team comprised of his own spirit mount and four other supernatural equines, but he still had had one empty spot in the his stable. Fiddleford had enthusiastically offered a Unicorn to fill out his team, although there had been element of selfishness to that transaction; for the little time he was under his care, Celestabethabelle had tried even Fiddleford’s notoriously tolerant soul.

“I hear our favourite multi-colored rascal is actually thriving up there. But, if you ask permission from Junko and Dice if they could spare a day to help chaperone, I would not be amiss to taking a small gaggle of children for a visit come the Fall.” Candy’s eyes grew wide in excitement. Fiddleford ruffled her hair.

“Candy and Grenda get to see the horses, that’s not fair!” Mabel whined, “I have to go back to school back in Maryland!”

“We send you pictures,” Candy said.

“No need to be jealous, little lady. I still have plenty of wonderful pets in the shop for you to look at today.”

But before Fiddleford could retreat to collect a creature for presentation, a high-pitched cry pierced the air. Everyone flinched, except for the source of the feminine yell: Dipper was balanced on one foot, valiantly trying to shake off the rat that was clinging to his leg.

“Algernon, get down from there!” Fiddleford knelt to pull the creature free. The rat chittered in protest.

“Aww, he likes you bro-bro.”

“Maybe I’d like him more if he wasn’t trying to climb into my shorts!”

Fiddleford let the rat run along his arm, tilting his head so it could scale his neck to climb high enough to nestle into the soft down of his hair. “It looks like Algernon brought some friends,” he remarked, straightening. Two pairs of curious eyes glinted from the open doorway to his office: one yellow with rectangular pupils, the other set small and dark like shiny currants.

“A PIG!” Mabel exclaimed. “None of the pet stores near our house have pigs! What kind of mystical animal paradise IS this?” The goat and the pig walked nonchalantly towards the group. Fiddleford rubbed a hand along Gompers back as Mabel crouched, utterly enamored, staring down straight into the pig’s face. It blinked back fearlessly, before butting her in the forehead, knocking her back onto her behind. Dipper was already pulling her to her feet as Fiddleford apologized.

“Oh my dear, are you hurt?”

“Pfft, I’ve had way worse. It totally means he likes me.” Once upright she ran to scoop the pig up in a tight embrace. Dipper let out an exasperated sigh. “What’s his name?”

“Well, we just call him Pig. Would you like to give him a name?”

“His name is Waddles,” she declared. The pig squealed in agreement and that was good enough for Fiddleford. He made a mental note to amend the registry with the new name. Waddles was recent addition: they had driven to pick Tate up from his agricultural college upstate and Fiddleford had fallen in love with the small piglet, immediately demanding to purchase it. On the way back, with the pig balanced in his lap as Rosie drove, Tate had been nonverbal and hostile. It took the entire car ride to figure out that his son was embarrassed by his father’s public display of sentimentality in saving a pig from becoming bacon. So Waddles had come to stay at the shop where he could not drive a wedge further between them. But Tate still asked after the pig, occasionally dropping by to feed him, the single exception to his lifetime rule of avoiding Fiddleford’s profession. And Tate had always called the creature Pig, so although Fiddleford considered it a wholly boring and unsuitable name he did not want to upset his son more than he already did. He wanted Tate to stay.

“But Waddles isn’t for sale. Apologies. I’m too attached to him I’m afraid.”

“There’s no room in the apartment for him anyways and I don’t think Mom would let us bring him home,” Dipper said.

“Ugh, why do you have to go all logic on me.” Mabel stuck out her tongue. “Do you have anything that takes up less space?”

“What do you think of fish?”

“Pretty fish?”

“I bet you these are the most beautiful fish you'll ever see.

 

* * * * *

Lazy Susan’s was a simple bakery. The interior was minimal: clean with smooth hardwood floors, hanging yellow IKEA lamps, two sets of white table and chairs, and a pristine glass display case framing cakes and pies straight out of a _Taste of Home_ centerspread. Stan had not intended to stop, but the smell of sugar wafted through his nose, sparking a memory of delicate cakes, pale skin, and over sweetened tea cupped by delicate fingers. So he found himself wandering in. The bell tinkled at his entrance.

The cashier was a woman about his own age, early forties, with curly bobbed brown hair and downcast eyes. She wore a shimmering black dress with a plunging neckline, provocative, yet elegant, and utterly out of place. Had Stan found her in a bar he thinks he might have swept her down a lamp lit street and to his bed for one night, but her unwelcoming demeanor and misplaced outfit were unsettling set against the red and white gingham of the countertop. Instead he coughed heavily to grab her attention from the book not so subtly hidden behind the register.

“Probably shouldn’t be reading on the job, toots. Won’t your manager get mad?”

She slammed the book shut. Stan caught a glimpse of the title: _Vanity Fair_. He hadn’t read it. At the hard sound there was a squawk from the door to what must be the kitchen.

“Rosemary? Is everything all right there?” came a disembodied, good-natured screech.

“Perfectly fine,” she called back, not taking her eyes off Stan. ”At least it would be if there weren’t customers telling me how to do my job.”

“I’m no expert, but aren’t you supposed to be trying to sell me something sugary instead of bitter?”

“You wouldn't be here if you weren’t interested to begin with. So, what do you want?” He ignored her curtness in favor of staring down pink fondant and carefully crafted lines of cream frosting, chocolate chips and cinnamon swirls. There was a staggering amount of choice.

“I don’t know anything about this stuff. Ate mostly candy as a kid to be honest. Couldn’t afford any fancy sugar things other than the rugelach and hamataschen my Mom made. “

“You need it to be kosher?”

“No, no, no, I’m just looking for something for a friend.”

“A lady friend?”

“. . . yes.”

She laughed and he had the uneasy feeling it was at his expense, but her expression settled from one of antipathy to endeared humor. He found himself the focus of a spotlight of unexpected maternal warmth radiating off the woman.

“If your lady friend asks, tell her Rosemary from Lazy Susan’s picked it out for you.”

“Sure, I’ll do that if he asks. SHE asks. I’m sure SHE’ll love it.”

She helped him pick out a basic chocolate cake, with strawberries on top. Not too complex or overly feminine and small enough to say: “this is meant to be shared only between two people.” Ten minutes later he had shoved the box under one arm, careful not to squash the ribbon, or crumple the cardboard, and he was using his boot hold the door open as he shimmied his way out.

"Thanks a ton. You're a life saver," he said. 

She dropped her head between folded arms, laid against the countertop in defeat. Why did Stanley Pines have to be so _nice_? And the type who did not realize how sweet he was, obviously used to trying to hide underneath a veneer of masculinity. Plus, he was undeniably handsome in a rough around the edges way. Fiddleford would fall for him completely, she was certain.

“Ooooh, what a nice handsome man!” Susan entered with a tray of cupcakes. Her apron spilled flour onto the floor as her words rubbed salt into Rosie’s wounds. “Do you have a date tonight?”

Rosie turned her palm up to stare at the obsolete wedding ring she still wore. The divorce had gone through a year ago yet mothing had changed except her own promiscuity. Susan harrumphed beside her.

“Now it’s none of my business, but you’re never gonna catch a new man with that. Those gigolos you bring home are good and all, serve your husband right, but you deserve a real nice, romantic fella. And you’ll never catch one if you still wear your ex-husband’s ring.”

Rosie yanked the offending jewellery off her finger and shoved it into her pocket, silently cursing Fiddleford, the entire Pines family and every supernatural creature she could think of. But she added a quick plea of forgiveness to God at the end to recompense.

* * * * *

Soos scratched his chin. “Maybe I ate something weird and seeing things, but I’m like, 90% sure that’s a merman.”

“This is amazing, I didn’t know mermen even existed! I have to add this to my notes.”

“Of COURSE they exist, Dipper.”

“Have you ever seen one before today?”

“No, but I always knew. In my heart.”

Fiddleford was pleased at his own foresight. Mabel and Armando were immediately taken with each other. The small merman peered inquisitively out of the viewing tank, flitting back and forth. He was only a foot long, but in full fish form he was still gorgeous, iridescent green fins with shining brown highlights that caught the light and sent sparkles across the tank’s pebbled floor. In human form his smooth bronze skin still shone underwater, cascading brown hair framing his oval face. Merfolk’s hair was specially textured with a soft layer of light mucus, easing its flow through the water, so that it appeared full and strong as humans’, allowing it to along a current without breakage. Yet in all his aquatic glory there was still a recognizable humanity in his grey eyes. Armando had been another rescue; the shop had him for only a month. Although, he seemed to get along well with the hippocampi and kelpies, he had little interpersonal interaction beyond daily visits from Melody and Fiddleford. Armando suffered from obvious depression at his familial separation. He needed a friend.

Dipper stood with his arms crossed as Mabel plastered her face against the glass and Fiddleford was sure her lipgloss would leave a mark. Yet Armando seemed charmed by her exuberance. Albeit shy, he had not taken his eyes off her since the tank was rolled in, despite the other presences. Newton almost fell off Grenda’s shoulder as she stould on tiptoe to peer over the edge of the water.

“Please don’t touch,” Fiddleford said gently. He waved for Armando’s attention, and proceeded to move his hands in fluent ASL. Fiddleford spent at least an hour a day teaching the Merman how to sign so they could communicate while he was underwater. _Come out so they can talk to you. They won’t bite._ Armando rose slowly, surfacing with a soft gulp, the sound overshadowed by Mabel’s excessively dramatic gasp.

“You were right Mister McGucket, he’s BEAUTIFUL. Hi there! My name’s Mabel! These are my friends.” Armando averted his eyes, but smiled coyly.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Armando.”

“More like MERmando. Haha, zing!”

“We don’t have any money to buy a pet,” Dipper said, before glancing suspiciously back at Armando who now had wide, fond eyes focused on watching Waddles demand to be allowed to climb into Mabel’s lap. She sat down, acquiescing. “Even if we did, I don’t think we could afford a merman.”

“You don’t think Stan would buy him for me? For our birthday?”

“He refuses to buy a cellphone do you think he’s going to buy, let me repeat, merman.”

“Yes, it was foolish of me to even suggest it,” Fiddleford said.

_So my hypothesis was correct, they can see him and so must have some form of magic. What form? Are they mages? Or Shifters? Or like their father, both? Do they know?_

His cell phone rang.

“Excuse me.”

In his office he felt a sudden pang of loneliness. The white walls seemed to crowd in on him, taunting him with their static blankness compared to the greenery and living energy of the main room filled with plants, animals, guests. Fiddleford slumped onto the sofa, then groaned at the Caller ID

“Rosie, I was in a showing.”

“I thought you should know: Stanley Pines is on his way to see you.”

“What?” he hissed, covering the mouthpiece with his hand, “What makes you say that?”

“He came into the bakery.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!" His voice cracked with anxiety. “Or did he say something to you? Wait, does he know you’re my wife?”

“EX-wife. And not that I know. But this is woman’s intuition, you can take it or leave it, but I better not find out at dinner tonight that you messed this all up, because you don’t trust me. How hard can it be to get your customers out? Alienating people hasn’t exactly been hard for you.”

“Jesus.”

He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging Algernon. The rat dropped to the ground with an incensed squeak and bolted off towards a hole in the moulding near his bookshelf.

“Don’t take Our Savior’s name in vain. I don’t know where you learned that, but it definitely wasn’t from me.”

“I never learned anything from you.”

“Maybe you should have.”

Fiddleford pinched the bridge of his nose. Rosie’s voice became softer.

“I have to get back, my break’s over. Be good.”

“I’ll try. Goodbye. I love you.”

“Sure thing.”

 

“I absolutely promise you are allowed to come back and visit whenever you want.”

“Goodbye, Mister McGucket! Good luck with your mysterious big client.”

“Yeah, thank you.”

“BYE BYE.”

“So, Melody, I’ll see you at eight?”

“Absolutely.”

“Will we see you again at the restaurant?”

“Anything for your delicious noodles, Candy darling.”

“I’M HUNGRY. LETS GO THERE NOW.”

“Can we borrow some money, bro? We used all ours at the movie.”

“Sure.”

“Woah, how’d you get all that.”

“ . . . I may have picked some money from Stan’s wallet.”

“DIPPER.”

“I used the trick he showed us last week, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Mister McGucket, you didn’t hear anything. Got it?”

“My lips are sealed. Now do run along.”

* * * * *

The first thing Stan noticed was that Fiddleford was trembling. Stan wanted to be professional, to yank the other man into the station for questioning, to scream in his face that PEOPLE ARE DYING, but Fiddleford was so obviously rattled that Stan felt blooming concern threaten to overwhelm him and he let himself be pulled in by the smaller man. Fiddleford had one quaking hand Stan’s shoulder and the other at his wrist, as if the Shopkeeper wad trying to ground himself as much as he was leading Stan to a chair. Eventually, the Detective found himself seated with a cup far too small for his hands while Fiddleford perched both too far away on the futon, yet too close that Stan smelt lavender soap again.

“You’re upset.”

Stan’s statement was tinged with pleading that hung heavy between them. _Please be upset for the right reasons. Please be a good person. I want you to be a good person._

The photo from Tats death lay on the table. Stan felt like a priest in a confessional.

Fiddleford chewed at his bottom lip and looked down at the box in his lap, avoiding both the photo and Stan’s eyes. Unopened, the sticker that sealed the box winked up at him, the words Susan’s Bakery in swirling pink font with a small orange cat making up the K. He wondered if the item inside was picked by Rosie or Stan.

“C’mon, tell me what’s going on. Just give me something to explain the photo.”

Fiddleford picked at the edge of the sticker. “I’m a suspect. So why are you bringing me presents? I don’t understand.”

“I-“ Stan flushed and gritted his teeth. “I just thought it was the right thing to do. I’m not a bad guy. People think I am, but I’m not.”

“I never thought you were a bad person, Stanley. In fact, you were only ever sweet to me. It’s . . . refreshing.”

“Yeah, well, don’t make my efforts go to waste. Help me out here. We’ve got your shop logo on two out of these three murders, so this isn’t just me going off on one of my ‘crazy hunches’.” Air quotes. “I know you’re into some shady shit, if being friends with my brother and Gideon Gleeful is any clue. So it’ll be better if you cooperate. Easier for everyone.“

“I am not friends with Gideon Gleeful.”

“Really? Cause it looked like you were pretty buddy-buddy while I almost got my head burnt off in that ring.”

“Are you angry with me? I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Stan's voice was so low that Fiddleford barely heard it. “I don’t think either of us meant for last night to happen.” _Which part?_ Fiddleford's brain screamed. _When I held your hand? The Chimera? Wendy? The kiss?_

“Then let’s forget it all," he begged.

“I’d love to, but you were fraternizing with that snot-nosed Gideon. I can’t ignore that, I know that kid’s up to something and if you want to save your hide you’re gonna tell me if you know any of his secrets.” _If that was Fraternizing, I wonder what you would call what we were doing,_ Fiddleford thought.

“Are you suggesting that if I turn in the Gleefuls you’ll excuse me for my potential criminal activities?”

“Absolutely not. I’m not against locking you up once I get cold, hard evidence, but I’m also appealing to your morals. You can’t actually like that kid! I’ve been trying to corner him for almost two years now. If you can help me its just a bonus.”

“I was under the impression the NYPD and the Gleefuls had an arrangement.”

“Yeah, the Department does, but not me. I’m a bit of a rogue agent.”

“I reckoned so.” Fiddleford peeled off the sticker and pulled the lid off the box still in his lap. “Somehow I don’t think its part of Supernaturalist protocol to bring suspects cake. Oh my stars, is this Belgian chocolate?”

“Is that different from regular chocolate? The lady at the store said you’d like this one.”

“Rosie does know me well, but don’t sell yourself short. You’re still the one who chose to bring me treats. Golly, why do you spoil me so?”

_Because when you’re happy you smile and it makes my stomach jump._

“I’m a man of persuasion.”

“I’m very persuaded.” Fiddleford dug one finger into the edge of the icing, scooping bit out and sucking it off his skin with a pleased, wet pop. “It’s been such an incredibly long day. I reckon I deserve a little of such fine cake and company. How about we have a full Tea, just the two us, and afterwards I’ll take you to meet Bud Gleeful? He knew Douglass Richardson before he died. And Bud's much more easy to talk to than his son.”

“You got yourself a deal. Just go easy on the sugar in the tea this time.”

“You have absolutely no taste, Mister Detective,” Fiddleford grinned.

 

Halfway to the Gleefuls' brownstone Stan realized they were being followed, and not subtly. He could sense it was only a simple human, so threat levels were low. He tried to ignored it. But the shoes kept tapping, sneakers he guessed by the sound of dragging laces accompanying sharp heaving and sniffling.

“What do you want?” he finally snarled, whipping around confront a very frightened Robbie Valentino. The teen was frozen in the wake of Stan’s anger, blotchy face pale. He was breathing heavy and shallow now.

“I saw you . . .” Robbie gulped. “”My parents are gone. Both of them.”

“Oh my god, we’re on serious business here. Are you sure they’re not just out doing" Stan threw up his hands, "I don’t even know what vampires do.”

“Robbie, did you check the house for a note?” Fiddleford interjected, “Or try calling them or sending a message through other means? You know we adults are busy often.”

“Don’t patronize me, dude! I didn’t need to check for a note!” Robbie grabbed at the ends of his hair, as if trying to pull himself back into his sweatshirt. The floodgates had been opened. “The whole place was fuckin’ trashed! There was blood everywhere. My parents' blood, I could tell cause it was all silvery and shit. All the windows were broken. And I-I-I-didn’t- I didn’t know how to ask, so I followed you cause you’re like, a police officer for shit like this, right?” There are tears rolling down his face now.

Fiddleford had a hand pressed to his chest in empathy, and then he was turning to Stan with a devastated look. Normally, Stan would not go in for this nonsense. He was a Supernaturalist after all, not a Missing Persons specialist. But when the Missing Persons were two vampires, there is a teenager in front of him so distressed he looks as if he might fall apart, and Fiddleford McGucket was looking at him with beautiful, expectant eyes, Stan finds his resolve cracking far too easily

“A quick detour. No promises.” Then a jab of a finger at Fiddleford. “And don’t think this lets you off the hook about your promise and my investigation. I’ll check it out, but you’re coming with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References in this chapter include The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Professor Layton, Flowers for Algernon, Pacific Rim and The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
> 
> For even more references, the horses owned by the Headless Horseman.
> 
> Gunpowder - the typical Dullahan's steed, can transform into any "form of transport" his master needs  
> Sebastian - a small brown Pegasus-Pony  
> Asfaloth - a fully grown white Pegasus  
> Pilot - a Gytrash  
> Bucephalus - an immortal Black Stallion  
> Celestabethabelle - a Unicorn (of course)
> 
> [Also here's the book Rosie is reading.](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vanity_Fair_\(novel\))
> 
> Stan talks about locking Fiddleford (and Gideon up), which would mean winning a trial and sending the convicted to an orbital Space Prison run by Time Baby (no one knows exactly what he is). The Supernatural Judicial System consists of court held in which the investigating Supernaturalist presents all the evidence they gathered and the Accused may defend themselves in front of a Jury of other Supernaturalists and Time Baby as Judge. However, this system is only used ln 30% of cases, as most Supernaturalists pass judgement during investigation and/or Battle. Stan is unusual in that he tries to take the majority of his cases to court, because he hates killing, believes in an intrinsic justice, and loves the showmanship required in a trial.


	9. Lion's Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford's bad decisions come back to haunt him, betrayal runs rampant, and Bill Cipher makes an appearance. Ma Pines has reason to be worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I had surgery and then for some reason this chapter was especially hard to write. A lot of action and plot stuff going on. At least, I hope you find the wait was worth it. Please enjoy!

The view from the outside was calm. Through the doorway was a coffee table stacked with books and white vase of red tulips, deep Turkish carpets, framed family photos where somehow the adults’ faces never changed even as the child grew into a surely teenager, and plastic covers on the furniture (which Stan knew were to protect against blood spots). The whole scene looked ancient, yet sterile and unlived in, like a life size museum diorama.

As soon as they stepped over the threshold the pristine vision shattered. Deep scratches scattered the walls. The wallpaper peeled off and fell in huge swathes from the breaks in the paneling, splintered wood and fiberglass peeking out from new holes. Two rafters had fallen and the chandelier had smashed, glass exploding out from the center. Shards of the vase stuck in decorative floor cushions, no longer holding the broken tulips. Instead the vibrant blossoms lay crumpled together underneath the chandelier’s golden skeleton, like children huddling from the rain. Ash from the fireplace had been tracked out from the fireplace and there were dark footprints on the walls. The place crackled with magic.

On the floor lay the telltale sheen of glistening, clear vampire blood.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Stan breathed. He padded forward. The glass cracked under his shoes. Fiddleford walked behind him, hand curled around Stan’s bicep. The detective could feel Fiddleford’s fingers shaking.

He bent down around the largest pool of liquid. The red of the tulips was lightly reflected in its surface. With his hand he delicately pulled one petal up, watching the blood slowly drip back down. It had the consistency of oil. He could hear Fiddleford breathing shallowly above him.

“Robbie when did you find it like this? Have you reported it to anyone else?”

“I told some people . . .”

“Who?”

The injection in his neck barely hurt, but he still roared in anger and surprise. And then, as if on command, all his muscles loosened and Stan slumped to the side. Square glasses fell from inside the collar of his uniform, splashing into the puddle the blood.

“I did what you told me to do, man. Lured him in here. Now you gotta help me find my parents.”

Fiddleford slipped the syringe back into his sleeve before picking Stan’s glasses up and wiping the lens of his pocket-handkerchief. He did not reply.

“So pleased everyone could make it to the rendezvous,” came a shrill voice. Two figures emerged from a side room. Gideon Gleeful, resplendent in blue, and Tad Strange, smiling as serenely as ever. Fiddleford sprung to his feet. Robbie trembled at Fiddleford’s sudden distress, eyes jerking back and forth between the other four.

“Tad! What is HE doing here? The agreement was between us! You never told me-Gideon-you’re working with him?! I never would have if I’d known!”

“Never would have what, Fiddleford?” Gideon sneered, “Tricked poor Robert here? Or taken advantage of a dumb man’s trust? Now we know you’ve no qualms about doing that before if you thought you were doing the ‘right thing’.” He made obscene air quotes along with the last two words.

“I-I–I-” Fiddleford clenched his fists and bent his head in shame. “I was supposed to give you all the Valentinos. What are you going to do them?” he choked out.

“Well, that’s none of your business is it? Classified info wasn’t part of the bargain,” Tad said softly, and then suddenly his voice was booming loud and electric. His eyes flashed yellow. I THINK YOU HAD BETTER BE ON YOUR WAY. Tad’s mouth had not moved, but Fiddleford still heard Bill’s voice loud and jarring, like an earthquake that sent his teeth rattling. Fear bubbled in his throat, a decade of fear of the demonic triangle that haunted his nightmares.

“You’re right,” he took a staggering breath, running a hand against the back of his neck. He could feel his pulse pounding. “G-good to see you again, Bill. I-I understand. I’ll take what I was promised and I’ll g-go.” Fiddleford bent down next to Stan’s unconscious body. They didn’t know exactly what we wanted. Or why he wanted it. They had the vampires, but as promised, he and Stan would get out alive. Then he’d get help and rescue all the Valentinos . . . as soon as he had the contents of Stan’s bag.

But before he could grab at anything a light blue aura erupted around Stanley. Gideon flung his arm upward in a salute and the black duffle bag was yanked high off the Detective’s arm, still glowing as it flew across the room and into the Gideon’s clutches.

“Stanley Pines’ bag?” Gideon stroked its worn fabric. “Whatever could be inside that you wanted it so bad enough to sell out the Valentinos? A . . . journal perhaps?”

“No!” Fiddleford spun and lunged, but Tad snapped and he was thrown back across the wall as if hit by a giant wind. Something against his back cracked.

“We’ll be out of your hair in a minute Dr. McGucket.” Gideon pointed at Stan and then flicked his wrist towards Robbie, who had crawled behind the overturned sofa. “First we have to take care of this.”

PIECE OF CAKE. Tad snapped again and yellow coils wrapped around Robbie and Stan’s limbs, rising in shimmering marionette strings. COME NOW KIDDOS. WE’RE GOING TO GO FOR A WALK.

“Stanley was’t part of the deal!” Fiddleford screamed.

“LET ME GO!” Robbie screeched simultaneously. “GIVE ME MY PARENTS BACK!”

“Robert you have no reason to be upset with us. We’re doing exactly what Fiddleford promised you,” Tad’s generic human voice sounded weak after Bill’s, “For helping us with this little routine we will reunite you with your parents. You’re coming with us! And as for you,” Tad reached over his shoulder, grabbing a familiar piece of machinery. The gun glinted where it pointed straight at Fiddleford. “You’ll not be giving us anymore trouble, friend.”

Tad pulled the trigger. Fiddleford could not help but sigh in pleasure at the familiar blanketing whiteness.

 * * * * *

It was dark when he awoke. In the dim streetlamp light his watch read 8pm. Fiddleford was sitting on a stoop, a harsh indent in his face from where he had leaned awkwardly against the doorway. He recognized the steps to his petshop although he had no memory of sitting down or falling asleep. Must have been another blackout. Those were happening with worrying frequency.

There was a deep throbbing in his temples. He rooted around trying to remember when the blackout had started. What had he been doing?

Slowly, his head gained more and more feeling, but still no memories. Instead he found an ironic static emptiness and soon his brain felt like it was crawling with insects, a terrible, familiar itch. He knew what that meant.

He’d done it again. He’d promised himself, every day, every hour he swore off it, and yet here he was with no memories of at least the last six hours. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. So close, he couldn’t be erasing now, he was so close! But where was the gun? His eyes scanned around him, searching for familiar yellow and red.

A pink cat keychain lay in the line between the cement tiles on the sidewalk. He reached and picked up the object, turning it over in his hand curiously. It was fluorescent, with enormous eyes, as if the mascot for some Japanese company. Glitter flaked off on his fingers. Some poor little girl must be missing it, he mused. What kind of girl dropped this? How old was she? Did she like animals?

 _Mabel . . . mabel . . . mabel . . ._ his mind whispered. A flash of brown hair across his vision and he reeled back. Ah, yes Mabel. The girl and her twin brother Dipper had visited him and they had adored all the pets. Mabel had named Waddles and fallen in love with Armando. Correction, he was now Mermando. The rat Algernon had tried to climb into Dipper’s shorts. Mabel and Dipper.

_Mabel and Dipper Pines._

He cried out as the memories came flooding back. _Stanley Pines._ Rough, handsome, determined, like his brother. Stanley Pines who didn’t like sugar in his tea. And he had tried to erase that?

More faces. Robbie Valentino, screaming. Leering Gideon Gleeful and nonchalant Tad Strange appeared again. Broken glass and yellow magic. BILL CIPHER. The last few hours overwhelmed his synapses and he gasped under a deluge of images and emotions. The memories sorted themselves into place like school children scrabbling to form a single line. But in time they coalesced and then he realized: Stan, Robbie, the Valentinos, everyone was in danger. He had no journal and it was entirely his fault. But he had one advantage: Tad had not counted on Fiddleford’s acquired immunity to the memory gun. _Focus, Fiddleford, who knows how much time we have._ He concentrated, sending mental fingers out in another direction, towards Brooklyn.

_“Ivan, can you hear me?”_

_“Yes, master.”_

_“Where is Tad Strange?”_

An eternal pause.

_“I do not know, master.”_

_“How can we not know! Didn’t I ask all members of the Council to encode their DNA with you? Track his magic!”_

_“His magic is untrackable somehow. He is blocking me.”_

_“Oh, god help me,”_ Fiddleford groaned.

_“. . . however, I do have a . . . hypothesis of his location.”_

_“Ivan, please, just tell me.”_

_“A few months ago, I placed trackers on all the memory guns.”_

_“I did not give you orders to do any such thing.”_ Fiddleford was solemn, trying to keep his tone level. This was worrisome. If Ivan was taking his own initiative again, he might override the objectives Fiddleford had placed in his design. The first time Ivan had broken his programming had been disastrous. Fiddleford had lost a fair amount of the Council’s trust that day; another incident would hazard a complete coup.

 _“That is true you did not ask me to do so. But I believed we required extra security. Especially after my . . . malfunction last Winter,”_ Ivan replied. The Android coughed delicately, a gesture of politeness, as Fiddleford knew he had no need to do so.

 _“What are the last usages of his gun from tonight?”_ Fiddleford asked.

_“Valentino Funeral Home, three usages. The Reservoir, one usage. Renwick Smallpox Hospital, two uses. That is all. If he has not moved he should still be at the hospital on Roosevelt Island or nearby.”_

_“Meet me there as soon as possible.”_

_“Yes, master.”_

 * * * * *

Fiddleford could not tell if he was sweating from the heat or anxiety as he slogged his way through the seething crowd. He felt like a sailboat buffeted in a typhoon, pushed past a pair of chattering nagas, ignoring their screeches of protest as he stumbled up to the tent labeled with a large medical cross.

“Kofi!” he yelled.

The vampire was sitting cross-legged with another white-coated “Doctor.” An array of red solo cups was at their feet and their lips were tinted red. Fiddleford knew it wasn’t from lipstick.

Kofi raised his eyebrows. “You look like you ran straight out of hell.”

“Or I have yet to. Listen, I need your help. I’ll do whatever you need, I’ll pay off your wages for tonight’s matches, I’ll take a debt up with Dice if he has to cancel the competition because he’s missing his Doctor. Whatever it takes. I need you to fly me to Roosevelt Island as quickly as possible!”

“Calm down, calm down, you’ll give yourself an aneurysm.”

”The Valentinos have been kidnapped. I don’t know. They’re in danger.”

The younger vampire visibly gulped.

“Kofi, if they were able to capture the Valentinos maybe you shouldn’t-“

Kofi’s face was cold. “I can take you there. I’ve been training Jimmy here for a while, but now’s a good enough time for him to try on his own.” Jimmy nodded a bit too eagerly. He looked to be the age of a teenager, but Fiddleford had no way of knowing his actual age. If Kofi trusted him they would leave the ring in his hands.

“We can go immediately.”

 * * * * *

The island was small. Kofi flew high over the Queensboro Bridge and made a steady decline in altitude as he approached the hospital at the Southern tip. Soon they caught sight of Ivan’s head, a period at the end of a trampled path on a page of dark green grass. Kofi swooped down to alight on the inner side of the barbed fence. The gust of the bat’s wings blew the red robe up around Ivan’s bare feet. Fiddleford fell to the ground as soon as he was released. He rubbed the feeling back into his sore sides where Kofi’s feet had held him tightly. He hated being carried, but for flying it was much more secure to be held than to ride; Fiddleford had no desire to end up a mess of guts upon some anonymous rooftop.

“This is perfect,” Fiddleford said, “Once we’re finished dealing them inside I will come get you and we’ll summon Dice to come help get everyone out.”

“Are you . . . are you seriously telling me to SIT AND WAIT while you go put yourself in danger?” The giant bat crumpled in upon itself in a wisp of smoke, leaving Kofi standing so the moon glinted against his skin. “The Valentinos . . . they’re the closest thing I have to parents. They saved me and I should be able to return the favor.”

“You’re not coming,” Fiddleford said sternly.

“You won’t be safe without me.”

“I have Ivan. Look, I got them all into this mess and I won’t have anyone else getting hurt in the process of correcting my misdeeds.”

Kofi stomped his foot. The rock underneath split in two. “Are you an idiot?! Going on a guilt motivated kamikaze mission isn’t going to help anyone. If something captured the Valentinos they can overpower two full vampires! No matter how much magic you have stored in the Android, you’ll be better off with me by your side. You’re only human.” The vampire looked at the Fiddleford with a palpable sense of concern.

“I’m your friend,” he continued, softer now, but the tone hit Fiddleford harder than the harsh words before, “And I know it’s hard to tell, because I still look the same age as when we met, but I’ve been at this game for as long as you have. Let me help.”

“You must understand that I did the wrong thing and now I’m paying for it. I don’t want you to see that side of me. So, I’m going in to correct it. Just me and my Android.”

“You can keep fighting with me, but you’re not going to win, and do you really want to be wasting time? So you better go in and rescue your friends. Age before beauty.”

Fiddleford craned his neck to stare at the darkened windows of the hospital. He wished he had a ghost seer with him. What haunted souls inhabited the crumbling stone? They’d have many tragedies to tell; poor Thompson would probably have a fit in a place like this.

He clasped a steadying hand to his chest and turned on his heel, leading the way into the ruins.

 * * * * *

Stan was in a sitting position when he came back to consciousness. He felt the hard press of a gag in his mouth. His tongue was painfully dry where the cloth soaked up his spit, and the heaviness on his limbs was from crude iron chains. All he remembered was an attacker, falling, and now he was here in the dark room. He was sitting in something wet. From the pain wracking his in his body, he could guess at what it was.

He heard a deep growling and his head snapped up to see that he was not alone. Alice Valentino was gazing at him, but she snapped her head away when he tried to meet her eyes. He could see her teeth elongated past the gag in her mouth. She shook her similarly chained hands (shining silver) and emitted a muffled sobbing sound. Her chest was completely wrecked. She had no shirt, exposing the long whip lines crisscrossing in ghastly arrows. They looked as if they had been inflicted months ago, the skin was closed and darkened, but Stan knew better. One of her breasts was missing, it’s healed stump the only place where her skin looked fresh and clean. Her husband was in no better shape. He had no gag, but his mouth was completely mutilated, a deep Glaswegian smile cut across it, a hideous gaping maw. The gash ran from ear to ear. He did not look away from Stan, but the Detective whished he would for there was a hole where his left eye would be. Leslie growled again.

Had they fed from him? His neck hurt. He felt a bandage wrapped around it, just tight enough to make him feel light headed on top of the pain right underneath his ears . .

Oh. That explained the Valentino’s stares. His captors, whoever they were, must have removed his silver implant. Now he was just a juicy meal for any vampire who wished to drink from him. And the two in front of him seemed especially starved.

A flashlight beam fell across his face and Stan winced.

“Oh my, look who’s awake. Hello Stanley Pines.” Tad Strange sounded as if he were welcoming Stan to a career fair. “Have you met the other members of our party? Say hello everyone!”

The light swept across the Valentinos, and back again to the wall Stan was propped against and he realized they were not three, but five prisoners. There was Robbie Valentino, still unconscious, with a similar bandage around his neck. And Gideon Gleeful.

Gideon was trussed up like a turkey. The evidence to his identity was the small stature and the shock white hair that now crumpled to hang over his covered face. The child was breathing shallowly through his nose, the only piece of his skin open to the air.

“You like that handiwork?” Tad asked. “You and the teenager got it good I didn’t have to do anything to you, because you caused me no trouble at all. On the other hand the others were a bit of a handful so I had to take care of them! Can you believe that poor mage kid thought I was helping him? But it all worked out for me in the end.” Tad’s laugh was straight off a sitcom audio track.

“Don’t any of you worry. I won’t do any lasting damage. In fact, I’m going to make you better than ever. How fitting that we’re in a hospital.” He knelt down to Gideon’s prone form, pulling out an arm and peeling back a Velcro piece of fabric. The syringe went into the plump flesh with ease. Tad patted Gideon on the head.

“Good boy. Aren’t you excited for your life after this? You’ll get to frolick and play like every other innocent child. None of that nasty magic left to poison you. Now how about shots for both of you?” He cooed gently, moving towards the Valentinos, who began to thrash violently. They each received sharp jabs to the leg.

“I’m sorry to say you really aren’t part of the experiment, Stanley. You're not a biological case since you technically don’t have any natural magic, but . . . Bill insisted.”

“HIYA! BILL CIPHER AT YOUR SERVICE. AND YOU’RE STANLEY PINES: THE NO GOOD LAYABOUT LIVING OFF ALL HIS BROTHERS HARD WORK. HAH, BUT YOU KNOW, BEAT UP LIKE THIS YOU LOOK ESPECIALLY LIKE FORDSY.”

Tad’s grin was feral. His eyes now matched the flashlight in brightness. Stan felt like he was laid under an operation table lamp.

“I THINK YOU’LL QUITE LIKE IT HERE. SURE YOU’LL HAVE TO SEE YOUR FRIENDS AND ENEMIES TORTURED. BUT I MADE SMILES HERE MAKE SURE TO ACTUALLY FEED YOU. IM A GENEROUS GUY. AND PERHAPS . . . WELL I’M HOPING YOU MIGHT BRING IN A LITTLE MORE COMPANY.”

There was the faint pounding of footsteps in the distance.

“HERE THEY COME! THREE . . . TWO . . . ONE.”

Fiddleford McGucket tackled Tad to the floor, the spell erupted from his mouth as if he were vomiting, the red web pinning Tad’s limbs to the stone. In response Bill only drew back Tad’s lips in an inhuman smile and Fiddleford’s chest heaved from the exertion as he released more red ropes. Tad’s body twitched widly underneath him, fighting the restraints, and yet the man’s face was all eerie bliss. And then he blinked, his eyes went dim, and he stilled. Finally, Fiddleford looked up at the scene before him.

He screamed.

Kofi’s hand was on is mouth immediately. “Do you want the entire island to hear you?”

OH NO DON’T DO THAT. I ALWAYS LOVE A RECEPTIVE AUDIENCE.

Fiddleford’s head turned in horror. Ivan winked at him with newly glowing eyes.

I AM SO GLAD YOU BROUGHT BULLSEYE ALONG. WHO WOULD THINK I’D HAVE AN EXTRA PUPPET TO PLAY WITH? ROBOTS THAT CAN MAKE DEALS WITH THE LIKES OF ME. HES SO WELL MADE; FEELS EVEN BETTER THAN YOU FLESHBAGS. AHH SPECS YOU ARE SO TALENTED!

Fiddleford threw Kofi’s hand off him and raised a quivering finger pointed at where Bill stretched in Ivan’s body, clicking obscenely. “You’re the one who’s been increasing his sentience! Giving him free reign over his programming and in return he gives you his body as a puppet!”

SMART. GOOD TO SEE YOU PUT THE PHD TO GOOD USE. Ivan sat down and crossed his legs, waving his hand airily. DON'T BREAK THE WINNING STREAK NOW. SO ARE YOU GOING TO UNTIE THEM OR WHAT?

“Who is this guy?” Kofi hissed.

“Someone very, very dangerous. And the only reason we are not bound and chained like everyone else right now is because for some reason, he doesn’t want us to be.”

GOOD LUCK FIGURING OUT WHY. TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER LATER AND MAYBE WE CAN TALK SHOP. BUT RIGHT NOW YOU SHOULD REALLY GET TO RELEASING YOUR FRIENDS.

Fiddleford narrowed his eyes. “What do you get out of it? You need us to do it for you. I won't help you with whatever hairbrained scheme this is.”

WELL THAT’S FOR YOU TO DECIDE. BUT LET ME GIVE YOU A HINT: I DON’T THINK ANY OF THEM ARE GONNA BE FOND OF YOU IF YOU LEAVE THEM HERE. BUT IT’S YOUR CHOICE.

Fiddleford and Kofi stood still.

SO STUBBORN. FINE. I’LL DO IT FOR YOU.

Ivan waved his hand and the cuffs on the Valentinos disappeared. In tandem they both lunged for Fiddleford.

WHOOPS

The fight was nearly even: vampire versus vampire. Kofi had the disadvantage of numbers, but Leslie and Alice were both malnourished and heavily damaged from healing multiple injuries. The two vampires were also consumed by hunger, unable to avoid damaging blows as they were repeatedly distracted by the four beating hearts in the room. The vampires danced around the room, claws scraping at the floor, the hard sound of bone hitting bone echoing against the stone. Fiddleford tried to ignore the thrashing above him as he ran toward Stan who looked up at him with wide eyes.

“You’re awake-oh Stanley, I’m gonna get you out of here.” The gag was lifted.

“Watch out!”

Fiddleford rolled out of the way just in time to avoid Leslie’s pounce upon the spot he had just occupied. The vampire snarled in Stan’s face and rain of spittle landed on his cheeks. From behind, Kofi had one arm wrapped around Leslie’s abdomen, holding him back, the other arm blocking strikes from Alice. Every so often Ivan would point a finger, and a bolt of magic would fly, disabling the Valentinos so that Kofi could gain the upper hand again. Fiddleford did not have time to question why Bill was helping them.

“Forget Stanley!” Kofi cried, “We need to get them blood somehow or they’re not going to stop! Get to the white shirt on the ground, rip out his Silver!”

“No, I can save him! Tad’s my fr-“

PREDICTABLE

Ivan reached over and dug a bony hand into the Tad Strange’s neck. The flesh parted like custard. Fingers quickly found what they wanted and in one fluid motion Ivan ripped out the silver plate. Blood spilled onto the floor and the Valentinos jerked towards it. No one stopped them as they bounded over to Tad’s limp body and buried their heads in the crook of his neck, blood smearing their faces as they drank heavily. Fiddleford chose not to watch the lurid display. Instead he crawled back to Stan, placing a touch of magic to the bonds at his wrists so he was free. He stood with some help by Fiddleford, but eventually his weight was on his own two feet and he ripped the bandage off his neck. The wound was closed; he wondered how much of the vampires blood had been taken to heal them. Stan drew in a staggering breath. He was not damaged.

The same could not be said for Tad Strange. His body was deathly white and the blood spots stood out on his skin like an abstract painting. The Valentinos lay on top of it panting, but finally still.

“Are you allright?” Fiddleford whispered.

”Oh god, oh god, what have we done . . . I’m so sorry. It's been so long since we-”

“Mom . . . Dad . . .”

Their heads rose in unison.

“Robbie, sweetheart,” Leslie croaked, staggering towards his son. His already grotesque face was shockingly wet and crimson. “We’re . . . we’re okay now.” Robbie pushed back against the wall, feet scrabbling at the floor. Leslie caught the fear in his eyes and he stopped in defeat.

Alice did not have her husband’s qualms. She crawled forward, the rock scraping her knees, until she could rest a hand against the broken heart of Robbie’s sweatshirt. The other reached out to stroke his face and his hair. He flinched, but she continued to caress him. The two stared at each other, the mother silently pleading for forgiveness, the son begging for a respite from his terror. For a minute this continued and then, ever so slowly, Robbie lowered his head to lay it against her chest. Immediately her arms were around him.

OH, HOW TOUCHING. HOLD ON LET ME GET MY TISSUES.

“Shut up!” Stan glared. The red clothed man had come in with Fiddleford, but he radiated threat.

YOU DARE TALK TO ME THAT WAY? DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? UGH I SEE SPECS AND SIXER NEVER MENTIONED ME. I’M OFFENDED.

“You know this guy?”

Fiddleford was shaking his head furiously, ignoring the questioning Detective. “Get out of him, Bill!” he commanded. Ivan pressed a contemplative finger to his lips and then drew it up to trace the tattoos over his blank head.

NORMALLY, I WOULDN’T TAKE ORDERS FROM YOU BUUUUUUT YOU’VE BEEN SO GOOD FOR ME I’LL LET YOU BY THIS TIME. I QUITE LIKE A LITTLE THEATER IN THE EVENING AND YOU’VE ALL BEEN SO FUN. SEE YA AROUND! BYE!!!!!!!!!

Ivan’s eyes went blank and rolled back in his head.

 * * * * *

The Android’s limp body was strapped to the table. Fiddleford could have used magic, a blowtorch or a wrench, but instead he picked up an old fashioned hammer. It was a large mallet, its head was the size of his palm, its handle the length of his forearm. Fiddleford raised it over his head with two hands and with a shout, smashed it against the Android’s leg and arms. Over and over again he swung, and with each motion he released his anger and emotion coiled in his arms, destroying Bill’s puppet. Ivan’s body shattered into pieces. He took extra care with the skull where the main computer was so that by the time he finished the writing on Ivan’s head was pulverized to illegibility.

Last he turned to the exposed torso. He had removed the Blind Eye Society robe before this exercise. Fiddleford took a long inhale and the hammer came down with a deafening boom. Ivan’s skin cracked like an egg, but the Shopkeeper did not let up, instead he kept striking, until his arms burned, until he no longer had to face the six-fingered hand painted on Ivan’s chest.

 * * * * *

Stan woke in a pool of his own sweat. He breathed in the smell of his own apartment, feeling the rough sheets of his bed under his hands, but it did nothing to quell his distress. There was a new pain, different from the burning aches and bruises from the hellish night. (He still had no idea what had really happened.) But right now, in the safety of his home, his heart beat feebly, struggling to pump blood, and he gasped for breath. It was terrifyingly familiar; he had not felt this way since he was ten. The sensations triggered memories of a bedridden childhood, of jealously listening to the joyous screams of the other children through his window, of a perpetual medical bracelet that left indents in his wrist. With Ford’s help he had overcome it all, he had become strong, and eventually he had lived his dream of running, of boxing, of being Normal. Now he did not think he could sit up. And on top of his sudden weakness there was a cold emptiness.

Ford.

He couldn’t feel Ford anymore.

 * * * * *

Across the water, Nancy Pines gazed curiously towards New York. The pawn-shop had been closed for hours, and she should really be asleep now, but since a simple TV dinner she had smoked a pack of cigarettes nervously waiting. For what she had not known. There was always a reason for things and when her body told her to wait, she waited. Now, she felt the Pull and it was almost a relief to finally know her purpose. So, she rolled up her spools of yarn, tied her knitting needles together and tucked the basket under the bed, before moving to her dresser. The bag was small, but she packed three dresses, bra, underwear, and small toiletries. If she needed more she could buy it in the City.

She was already known for her eccentricities. So, no one would have questioned seeing her hobble down the street so late at night and no one did. A few shady figures passed by without a sound and the cats gazed at her from behind garbage cans, but she paid them no heed as she set forth on her mission. Nancy Pines caught the redeye North to where New York City still glittered despite the late hour. Sitting on the train, facing her own reflection in its window, she thought of her children. Ford still swam in her consciousness, but his presence was weaker. This should worry her, except Ford’s lifeline had fluctuated so frequently in the past ten years since his disappearance, at this point she could not be concerned with each change. More importantly, Stanley’s signal had shrunk to half its usual strength. Her baby needed her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number of times in this fic so far that Fiddleford has been saved from a fight: 3.  
> Number of times in this fic so far that Fiddleford has won his own fight: 0.
> 
> To be fair he usually gets by with surrounding himself with more powerful people. Don't worry we'll get to see the McGuck hold his own later on!
> 
> Next chapter is going to be a flashback to Stan and Ford's childhood which will give you some more explanation of the last two sections, ooooooh.
> 
> [Confused about chronology? Check out the RHaUB timeline!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5073844)  
> Last but not least, thanks SO much for reading this far guys!! It's so great to be able to write this for all of you, let me know what you think of the story so far if you can! ❤️


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